


The Girl From The North Country

by wandering_gypsy_feet



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Biker AU, But with a happy ending!, Drama, Eventual Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, F/M, Fluff, Inspired by Music, Joffrey is a dick, Modern Era, Romance, Song Lyrics, What's new, robb is king in the north, sansa is perfection, slow burn to the max, strong blackwater feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-03-27 16:43:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 134,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13884912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandering_gypsy_feet/pseuds/wandering_gypsy_feet
Summary: Sandor Clegane belonged to no man, no tribe, no club. He didn't care about biker wars between Lions and Wolves. He just wanted to get drunk and get paid. Nothing else mattered, until a girl with blue eyes and a gentle smile got in the middle of it and changed his life.Modern AU with Bikers, with strong Sons of Anarchy vibes.





	1. Jesus Christ, Brand New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS IT'S HERE, MY PASSION PROJECT! Ok, there is a lot to explain so buckle in, I'll make this quick.
> 
> We have rotating POVs. First chapter Sandor, second chapter Sansa, so on and so forth. Each chapter title is a song. I highly recommend that you check them out. I have a full Sansan playlist on Spotify with all of these, and I think each song lends itself to the chapters. 
> 
> I'll post a brief little dictionary for words you don't know at the end of each chapter- biker lingo is a bit different and if you haven't watched Sons of Anarchy, you might be lost for a hot sec. 
> 
> As always, updates on Saturday mornings. Reviews are the blessings that gets a writer through life, and your reviews especially help my stressed self.

Guns for hire didn’t last long. Clegane knew this, and knew it well. That’s why his plan was to make as much cash as he could, then jet off to some quiet, non-extradition country, and live out the rest of his days with an excess of booze and porn. Not a bad idea, he thought.

 

And the biker wars offered plenty of chances to line his pockets and use the only skills he had. Violence, brutality, fighting, it was all second nature to him. It was all he’d ever known, and so when he offered his services, they’d taken one look at his hulking 6’9 frame, his scarred vestige, piss-poor attitude about everything in general, and nodded their assent.

 

He didn’t expect to wind up as a bodyguard though. He should’ve known, really. He wasn’t a prospect, and he’d never patch in. He wasn’t ever going to truly be one of the club, so it made sense they wouldn’t trust him with ‘club shit’. But it didn’t stop him from wishing he could do something other than follow the little cunt Joffrey around day in and day out.

 

He’d came to SoCal for him, ironically. Joffrey was the new president of one of the largest biker gangs, the Lions, and many said it was only because of the scheming of his mother. Clegane didn’t care how Joffrey came to hold the gavel, or the mysterious circumstances of his father’s death in prison. All he cared was that Joffrey had kicked off a turf war with the biggest biker gang there was- the Wolves of NorCal.

 

He’d gathered, in time, some of the circumstances. The former president of the Wolves, a man by the name of Stark, had been close with Robert, the last president of the Lions. Then, and the details were unclear, Robert ended up in prison on trumped up assault charges, and was shanked by a man inside. Joffrey claimed it was at the fault of Stark, and when the man traveled to pay his condolences, Joffrey had shot him in cold blood without a second thought of the alliance the Wolves and Lions had.

 

Joffrey had a talent for that. Clegane hadn’t been here for long to see that the young man was mad, absolutely insane, and loved to hurt people. But to him, that was all fine in a boss, even if it meant that Stark’s son, the new president of the Wolves, had declared war on them and now it seemed like California was a battleground. He was getting paid, handsomely, to stand as a hired gun, and make sure no one died.

 

He was sure that this job was going to be nothing more special than the last, and the one before that, and all the others in his life. He’d get paid and bail eventually, and he wouldn’t spare a moment of regret for California. Then she walked into the clubhouse, head hanging, red hair glimmering in the lights, and his whole world upended in an instant.

 

“Dog!” Joffrey yelled, marching the girl into the middle of the clubhouse. Her head was down, but even from that angle, Clegane could see how pretty she was. And young. He stood up from the table where he’d been smoking, grunting.

 

“Who’s this?” Littlefinger, the treasurer of the club, was looking at the girl with something like hunger in his eyes and it made the hairs on the back of Clegane’s neck rise up.

 

“This,” Joffrey said triumphantly, “Is Sansa. Sansa Stark.”

 

The club broke out into whispers. The hookers and the girls that fetched beers and sucked dicks were exchanging looks, while Joffrey smirked. Clegane didn’t know who this Sansa was, but if she was a Stark, that meant she was likely a key piece on their chessboard. He wondered how the fuck a girl like her was stupid enough to be this far south.

 

“Robb’s little sister?” Jaime Lannister, the Sergeant at Arms, gave Joffrey an incredulous look. “How the fuck did you—”

 

“Did you kidnap her?” One girl, a hooker with big tits, was trying to sidle up to Joffrey.

 

“No.” He scoffed. “Sansa came to try and talk peace, didn’t you?”

 

“Foolish girl.” Cersei, the former queen and Joffrey’s mother, laughed.

 

“Peace?” Even Littlefinger’s eyes were wide in disbelief. “Why the hell would anyone think that there would be such thing as peace here?”

 

“Where did you find her?” Bronn still looked skeptical.

 

“Right on down the road.” One of the prospects said eagerly. “She asked for Joffrey, said that she needed to talk to him.”

 

“Stupid bitch.” Joffrey gloated, appraising Sansa like she was some bike he wanted to buy. “Still, I wish it would’ve been her brother. He’d be a bigger prize.”

 

“Yes, yes, you’ll kill Robb Stark eventually.” Jaime was the only one who had the decency to at least look a little horrified.

 

“I’ll slaughter him.” Joffrey corrected, with a glint in his eyes and Sandor was torn between rolling his eyes and pondering how Cersei didn’t see the monster she’d created.

 

“Alright, fine.” Bronn waved a hand, unbothered by Joffrey’s statements. “In the meantime, what the fuck are we going to do with her?”

 

“What if her brother comes for her?” Jaime seemingly latched onto the suggestion of wisdom in the whole clusterfuck Joffrey had caused.

 

“He won’t.” Joffrey scoffed. “She’s just a woman. If I had a sister, I’d never risk shit trying to get her back. She’s just a fucking whore.”

 

“Alright.” Cersei cut him off gently, carefully. “But still, Jaime has a point. Robb Stark might try to get her back. We should have a plan.”

 

“Maybe I’ll marry her.” Joffrey said thoughtfully. “How would fucking Robb Stark feel then, when his little sister was all—”

 

Clegane ignored Joffrey’s monologue in favor of trying to evaluate the girl. She couldn’t be older than 19 or 20, not with those perky tits and fresh skin. She was pale, even though they were in the midst of summer, and her skin didn’t have a blemish on it. Her hair was auburn, and he debated if it was dyed or natural. He’d never seen a shade like that occurring naturally before.

 

She was wearing jeans, tight, and had legs for days. He wondered what her ass looked like idly and willed her to turn so he could see. Her top was simple- a tight white tank top that did her tits justice. She wore a single necklace, but it’s pedant disappeared beneath the crest of her chest, and he wished he could draw it out and inspect it. A ring sat on her finger, and she spun it quickly.

 

Then she looked up, locking her gaze with his, and all the air in the clubhouse was seemingly sucked out. Her eyes were the most piercing blue he’d ever seen, the most stunning azure. She caught his gaze and held it, not a brush of fear there at his ruined face. She looked like a painting he vaguely remembered from history classes long ago, like a artist’s brush come to life.

 

“Clegane!” Jaime said sharply and he came to, raising an eyebrow. Apparently he’d missed whatever orders Joffrey had given.

 

“Aye?”

 

“I said, you’re to guard her.” Joffrey repeated, looking rather annoyed. “Accompany her everywhere, and keep her safe.”

 

“Safe from who?” One of the whores asked with wide eyes.

 

“The Wolves.” Joffrey shoved Sansa towards Clegane and she very nearly tripped, catching and righting herself at the last moment before he could even make a move to try and prevent her from falling. He hovered, slightly awkward. She kept her gaze on the floor, apparently smart enough not to look up at anyone. “Put her up in one of the dorm rooms.”

 

“Aye.” Clegane agreed, grabbing her elbow roughly. The girl didn’t fight it, and when he pulled her away, she lifted her head and strode out with all the grace of a queen. He wanted to talk to her, to ask her something, but instead they went along in a strange silence he didn’t break.

 

He had to search for a few moments for a room that didn’t have some club member passed out in a hooker’s arms, eventually finding the furthest room upstairs to be empty. Sansa trailed him the entire time, as silent as a ghost, and he had to check several times that she was still there with him. He nudged her inside and for a moment she paused, looking at it.

 

It wasn’t in bad shape, not really. It was a little grimy, and a condom had missed the wastebasket, but the bed was made and the only decoration was that of a dresser with a large mirror. As far as places to be held hostage in, he thought this one was pretty decent. She took a few steps in, before turning and looking at him, blinking those damned eyes.

 

“Now what?” Her voice was clear, and didn’t have the slightest tremble in it. When she turned to face him, he realized how tall she really was, though he still bested her with ease. He gave a small shrug, closing the door and standing before it. “Can you speak?” She asked, walking towards him and tilting her head curiously. He was silent, until she was close enough, and said,

 

“Dogs bark.”

 

“Ah.” She took a step back and crossed her arms. He strove to not look at what that did for her tits. “So you’re the infamous Hound, Joffrey’s blood thirsty guard dog.” He was silent, and she didn’t say anything else, watching him for a moment. Then she took to exploring the room and bathroom, throwing things into a pile in the center of the room. He watched without interest— there weren’t any windows in the room large enough for her to escape from, and he could keep her from the door.

 

In the pile were ratty towels, old shampoo bottles, a few tee-shirts she’d pilfered from the dresser, and the entire bedding. When she had finally cleaned the room, she sat on the bed and went to work braiding her hair. He watched, entranced despite himself, as she wove the fiery strands into several braids that ended as one, falling down her back. So engrossed in her work he was, he jumped when someone knocked.

 

Ros, the redhead hooker, entered when he opened the door. After a moment, her eyes took in the devastation Sansa had caused, and the girl herself, sitting calmly on the bed, using a hair tie to neatly end the braid. He’d learned that Ros had a short temper and found himself wondering how Sansa was going to receive the wrath of the Lion’s head whore.

 

“What the fuck did you do?” She demanded of Sansa, who straightened up.

 

“I’ll need new towels, and bedding.” Her voice was surprisingly authoritative, more so than he would expect from a girl in her position. “Oh, and toiletries. Since I’m assuming that I won’t be allowed to go get any, I can make a list for someone else.”

 

“You fucking—” Ros started, but Sansa simply kept talking.

 

“I wasn’t permitted to keep any of my clothes, or shoes. I can give my sizes to whoever is going to go get me some new things.”

 

“You can wear fucking rags, for all I care.” Ros was clearly jealous of the younger, and prettier girl, he decided. Sansa looked at her coldly, and he was surprised by this girl with a spine.

 

“And would Joffrey want that?” It seemed to be a trump card, because Ros’s mouth twisted into a snarl, and after a moment, she gathered up the bundle in the middle of the room and marched out. Once she was gone, Sansa deflated some, quiet. He watched as she fiddled with a ring that sat on her middle finger, spinning it idly as she stared at her reflection.

 

When the door opened again it was Cersei, who looked displeased. She walked in, folding her arms. Sansa didn’t rise from the mattress where she sat, gazing at the biker queen levelly. He’d seen men cower under the gaze of the queen, and yet here was Sansa, back straight, unscared of all that was going to happen to her. It felt like respect was growing.

 

“Honey,” Her voice was sickly sweet. Joffrey shared his mother’s habit of revealing his mood with his tone, but usually the nicer Cersei was, the more likely she was to rip someone’s throat out. “Were the accommodations not to your liking?”

 

“No.” Sansa declared flatly and he wondered at how wise her bravery really was. He’d seen Cersei beat strippers for less.

 

“Oh?” Cersei arched an eyebrow dangerously. “What were you expecting then?”

 

“Better.” Sansa said simply, still unafraid. “I would like things to be livable. And I’m going to need new clothes, since you took mine.”

 

“And you think that you can just come in here and demand a new wardrobe?” Cersei was like a snake, waiting for the right moment to strike.

 

“I thought you’d like to dress me in red and gold.” Sansa’s voice was like ice. “Since I’m a golden lion now, isn’t that right?”

 

“Well,” Cersei had the good sense to look at least a little impressed at the girl’s audacity. “You are most certainly right.”

 

“I thought so.” Sansa was quiet for a second and he wondered if Cersei was going to lose her shit. Instead, she gave a little smile.

 

“Any suggestions then? I wouldn’t want to get you the wrong size. I know how unflattering clothes can be when they don’t fit.”

 

“I’m a small.” Sansa said cooly, raking her eyes down Cersei’s form. Though still young, Cersei was no longer a thin 20 year old. She couldn’t match Sansa’s youth.

 

“Of course.” Cersei looked like she was struggling to keep her teeth from gnashing together. “Anything else then for you?”

 

“If I’m to be Joffrey’s prized toy, I should look the part.” Sansa rose and went to look out the long, thin window. “And I’d like to sleep on sheets that aren’t cum-stained and smell of weed.”

 

“Well, of course.” Cersei’s lip curled and he’d spent enough time around her to know that something awful was about to happen. “Can’t have such a delicate little princess sleeping on a pea now can we?”

 

“No, we cannot.” Sansa turned to face her, and he saw a flash of hatred there, despite her flat mask. “I’ll need toiletries as well.”

 

“Alright.” Cersei inclined her head. “I’ll send someone to get them.” Sandor blinked in surprise, but didn’t let it show on his face. It seemed Sansa had won the first of this, whatever it was. He hoped she savored it. It wasn’t going to happen again with Cersei.

 

Sansa didn’t say a word, just stared out the window until Cersei had left. Even then, when the door had clicked shut and he’d moved back in front of it, she didn’t move. She stared out the window as a car pulled out, the gate rolled back, and then rolled closed once more. She stayed that way, face turned north for so long, he wondered if she was frozen. Then she dropped her gaze, sat in a chair, and twisted the ring on her finger.

 

He stood and kept watch for a long time and she didn’t say a word, or make a noise. She sat, staring at the floor, twisting her ring, as though lost in thought. Some part of him itched to know what she was thinking, what was on her mind that kept her from screaming with boredom. But he was silent, watching her, until the sun had set and there was a knock at the door.

 

In paraded the hookers, each carrying a bundle or bag. Sansa watched with disinterest as they spilled items onto the dresser, arranging things in the small bathroom, making the bed, and putting clothes into dresser drawers. Cersei stood in the doorway, arms folded, and her eyes glared into Sansa’s skull, though the younger woman seemed not to notice.

 

As the woman worked, they talked, laughing harshly at Sansa’s expense. They didn’t keep their voices down as they called her names— slut, whore, bitch, cunt— not particularly imaginative, but he was sure they had to sting nonetheless.

 

“And I heard her mother was a whore--”

 

“What mother? I heard wolves just sleep with whoever.”

 

“How many do you think she’s fucked?”

 

“Hundreds, I bet.”

 

“I bet the bitch is probably desperate for Joffrey’s cock.”

 

“Fuck off Ros, we all know you’re desperate for it!”

 

They dissolved into laughter, and Cersei’s smile was a cruel thing from the corner. Sansa endured it all without saying a word, her face like stone. He was left to wonder just how much abuse they were going to heap on her, and how much she could take. When the bed was made, the clothes folded, and the bathroom stocked, the women left, leaving him, Sansa, and Cersei alone.

 

“Well.” Cersei clapped her hands. “Hopefully this restores everything to your standards. Wouldn’t want to upset you now.”

 

“Thank you.” Sansa said quietly. He was surprised at her courtesies, but Cersei seemed to expect them. He wondered at the games women played. Men had brute strength and power, making it simple enough. Women, on the other hand, had their minds. He wryly thought that perhaps women should be feared more, given what he knew of Cersei.

 

“Hopefully this will do to remind you that you’re not a prisoner.” The queen’s silky voice carried every contradiction to her words. “I believe my son could fall in love with you, given time. If you two got married, it could do a lot to convince your brother that we don’t hold you responsible for your father being a rat.”

 

“My father was not a rat.” Sansa looked up, eyes flashing. “He was a wolf.”

 

“Your father was the reason my husband was killed.” Cersei spat. “He ordered him killed in prison, so that he could have SoCal for himself.”

 

For a second, he wondered if Sansa was going to step up and face the lioness. With her flashing blue eyes and rigid stance, he half believed she might actually have a shot. Then she turned away, the braid flying. She held herself still while Cersei breathed heavily, having seemingly anticipated an attack from the girl as much as Sandor had. For a second, all was still.

 

“Excuse me, I should shower.” She walked into the bathroom and Cersei fumed silently for a moment, before turning to him.

 

“See that she never leaves this room.” She ordered him flatly and he nodded, bowing his head slightly. “I’m going to break that wolf bitch.”

 

“Aye.” He said simply.

 

“And Clegane?” Cersei gave him a long look and he held it.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Don’t worry about being gentle. Live up to your reputation.” She ordered and swept out, slamming the door behind her.

 

Part of him prickled at Cersei’s mention of his reputation and what it implied. He knew that anyone who looked at him saw the scars and felt horror first. He’d made his living off of his face and reputation for years now. That he had skills was secondary to the fact that he looked like a killer. He knew all this, but couldn’t quite place why Cersei’s reminder of it irked him so.

 

He watched the closed bathroom door, hearing the water of the shower. It went on for some time and just when he had half a mind to go make sure she hadn’t drowned herself in it, the noise stopped. A few moments later she emerged from the steaming room, wrapped only in a towel. He was glad that he was seated and that she hardly looked up at him.

 

Now her hair hung in strands down her back, some grouped together, some loose. It was like a waterfall of red, and when he glanced at her, he saw a pale face devoid of makeup before he quickly locked his gaze on a point on the wall. He was determined not to think about what was under that flimsy towel, but he couldn’t think of much else watching her.

 

She opened the drawers to the dresser, rifling through the clothes with disinterest. She’d been right to assume that everything was going to be gold and red— club colors. She picked out a pair of leggings, the only black in the pile, and a red shirt with a roaring lion. Something in her face twitched at the sight, before she located a sports bra and went back into the bathroom.

 

The next time she emerged, she was dressed. He chanced one look at her, noting the bare feet and the still dripping wet hair. She was combing through it absentmindedly as she walked, leaving a trail of wet carpet as she went. Twice she explored the room intently. He watched closely, though he had no idea what she was looking for, before she came to a halt before him.

 

Her blue eyes unnerved him, he wasn’t too manly to admit it. The way she cocked her head, that hair messy down her back, was offsetting to him for reasons he couldn’t explain. She didn’t look right in red. He liked her better in white. After a moment, she reached for the ring on her finger, slowly sliding it off. Then she took the necklace, lifting it over her head.

 

He saw that the charm hanging from it was actually two strands— the shorter one a crescent moon and the longer a wolf, howling up at it. After a moment, she unclasped it, slid the ring on the chain, and offered it to him. He stared at it, then at her, uncomprehending. It swung back and forth from her fingers, the silver glinting when it caught the light right.

 

“What?” He asked, glancing at her, unsure of what she meant by this.

 

“Take it.” Her voice was calm and sure, and he was silent. She knew what questions he would ask then, and she answered them. “You’ll keep it safe. She’ll take it from me, or he will. Someone, eventually, will try to remove everything that I am. I won’t let them.”

 

“Why me?” He grunted. The words he left unspoken hung in the air. Why would I keep it safe? Why wouldn’t I hand it over? Why would I care? Why would I keep it secret? Why would I do anything for you?

 

“Because you’re not one of them.” She replied, her gaze feeling like the weight of the world was pushing down on him. And she was right, he knew, as his palm reached out and the necklace pooled into it. The metal was still warm from its contact with her, and he closed his fingers around it tightly. Sansa held his eyes for a long second, before with an almost imperceivable nod, turned and walked to the bed.

 

He stayed where he was, watching from her perch on the other side of the room as she curled into a ball amongst the pillows, folding her knees up tightly and wrapping her arms around them. Her hair fanned over the pillows and so she fell into a fitful sleep, and he kept watch over her until he too felt the tendrils of sleep pulling at him. He settled into his chair, and tried to sleep.

* * *

Dictionary 

Gavel - literally a judge's gavel, used by the president of the club.

Queen - wife of the president.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, this is seriously one of my favorite stories I've ever written. I liked Gone North but I love this one. Leave me reviews, kudos, even a smiley face. You are all so great. All I can say is thank you, and come back next week.


	2. Lost It All, Jill Andrews

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am so blown away by the reaction to this story. All of the comments and feedback has been... Wow. Thank you. This is my favorite story I've written to date, and I hope you all love it as much as me. 
> 
> Without further ado... Sansa.

The next morning, when she rose, Sandor Clegane was still beside her door, though he’d dragged the overstuffed and slightly ratty chair over so he could sit. She stayed where she was in bed, watching him for a long moment. Better to think on him than to think on the reality of her situation. If she thought about that, she was sure that she was going to be violently sick.

 

He was cleaning his gun. She wasn’t scared of it in that moment. She knew her last name was like a shield, bullet-proof armor, and it would protect her. She didn’t know how long, but she knew that no one would try anything. Not when she was still a Stark. She was still too valuable yet, still Robb’s little sister. It could keep her safe for a bit longer. Or so she hoped.

 

It was a nice gun, she noted. And he cared for it well, she thought. It was in good shape, even if it was well loved and worn smooth by this point. His fingers were gentle but sure as he cleaned the parts, setting them aside and picking up the next. She watched until he’d cleaned it all, then started to reassemble. When the gun was finally complete, she spoke.

 

“Did you even sleep?”

 

His head shot up and he looked at her in surprise and disbelief. She stayed where she was, gazing at him. She knew better than to show weakness with men like him. She knew who he was. He was the sort of man she’d grown up knowing, but always at a distance. After a second, he relaxed and glanced down at the gun, putting it back where it belonged in a holster on his hip.

 

“Aye.” He replied lowly and she wondered if she’d heard him say anything else. Yes, yesterday, when she’d given him the ring that Robb had gifted her, and the necklace that Jon had gotten her. Jon. A flash of pain in her heart, but she pushed it down. He’d asked her why she’d given it to him, trusted him with it, and Sansa had given him honesty in return. She hoped it wasn’t going to be her downfall.

 

“Seems I missed my chance to escape.” She sat up, stretching. When she glanced back at him, his brow was furrowed, like he was trying to decide if she was joking. “Or maybe you’ll be so tired today I’ll get a second shot at it. Unless you don’t need to sleep like humans?” She cocked her head and tried to keep her tone natural. She wanted to feel him out, see what he would and wouldn’t tolerate. It would be helpful to know, if he was going to accompany her everywhere.

 

“Aye, I slept.” He looked uncomfortable with speaking, or maybe just her in general. She hoped that he knew, on some level, how wrong this situation was. But she knew what kind of man she was and didn’t hope too much. “Toad sat outside your door for the night.”

 

“Toad.” She tried the name out. She was accustomed to most bikers having nicknames. She tried to place the name with the mugshots she’d seen back home, but couldn’t. She was good with her father’s men, but not anyone else’s. She’d never had to care about which bikers were who and what club they belonged to. “I’d rather have a guard dog than a guard toad, I guess.”

 

He gave something of a snort that could almost be mistaken for laughter if she didn’t know him any better. But she did; she’d heard the stories, and men like him didn’t laugh at the remarks of young girls that were being held hostage by terrible men.

 

He was the Hound, a notorious killer. She wondered, absentmindedly, how much Joffrey was paying for a man of his caliber. She knew her worth then, if he assigned this man to keep her here. Men like him never came cheap and there was a reason her father had always kept his children well removed from them. She leaned with her chin on her knees and tried to take him in.

 

He was tall, almost a foot taller than she, and that was difficult. She had inherited her father’s height and stood nearly 6 feet herself. She liked when she wore heels, and could tower over her brothers. Absentmindedly, she wondered if either of her little brothers would grow tall like their father, or take after their mother and sister, who were tiny little things.

 

He was maybe double her size, and despite her slenderness, it was impressive. He wore boots, black and scuffed. Jeans, with a belt that held his gun and a wickedly curved knife nearly as long as her forearm. His shirt was black and dirty, ripped at the sleeves to showcase massive arms covered in tattoos. He had a leather kutte, but it was blank. No patches, no rocker.

 

She gazed at his face, which was the most interesting thing about him, regardless of his size or height. Even with his head down and his hair falling in front of his face, there was no way to hide the scar that covered most of his one side. The side that was unburnt was covered in a black beard, with sharp cheekbones and grey eyes that darted out to catch her eyes on him.

 

She didn’t look away, even when he glared. Instead, she took in the scar that covered most of his cheek, forehead, and side of his head. It was clearly old, having healed as well as burns could, faded pink over the years. It looked like someone had taken a blowtorch to his skin. She couldn’t imagine how painful it must’ve been, whatever had happened.

 

“You’re staring, girl.” He growled, but she couldn’t be bothered to fear him in any great amount. He was a dog, loyal to his masters, and he’d never hurt her, unless commanded. It was an unpleasant thought, so she turned back to the present.

 

“I am.” She finally looked away, getting up. There was no point wasting away in bed, not when she needed to get her bearings. The sooner she memorized the rhythm of this place, the sooner she could plot her escape back north. “And it’s Sansa, not girl. I have a name. You know it. Use it.”

 

He was silent at her proclamation and she has a half second of wondering if she’d offended him, before she decided not to care. What was he going to do that wasn’t already awful and fucked? There wasn’t much more that could get any worse about this situation really. She was going to be in hell no matter what. So she opened the drawers, trying to decide what to wear.

 

All that had been offered to her was short, tight dresses in red or gold. Joffrey clearly meant for her to look like a hooker. Her lips curled at the thought, but she stiffened up and looked for something that might be appropriate. She had to settle on jean shorts that would cover her ass, barely, and a tank top of gold. She’d have to wear a lacy bra and she loathed it as she picked it up.

 

She glanced at Clegane, who was watching her with disinterest. She wondered, for a moment, if he’d kept the necklace, or if it had already been discarded in a trash bin somewhere. Perhaps Joffrey was already laughing at it. She couldn’t stomach the idea of him touching such a precious thing, but she knew that the remote chance Clegane had kept it away from him was better than the sure bet of Joffrey removing it today.

 

She went to the bathroom to change and get ready for the day. The shorts were uncomfortable and the bra more so, but the gold didn’t clash with her hair as much as red did, so she braided and tied it up atop her head. The heat in SoCal was worse than NorCal, and she oddly longed for the chill, instead of the unrelenting sun. Already sweat was dripping down the small of her back.

 

She gazed at herself in the mirror. No makeup had been provided for her, which would’ve made her laugh if she wasn’t already so tired. What were they hoping, that taking away her mascara would dampen her spirits or make her uglier? She straightened up. She’d have none of that. She’d gotten accustomed to people remarking on her beauty, she could do the same with people degrading it.

 

She walked back out, still barefoot. She looked at the pitiful offering of shoes by the door, all platform stripper heels. She wondered if that was Cersei’s idea. Fine, if Joffrey wanted her to stand head and shoulders above him, she would, and do it gladly. She bent at the waist to grab a pair and watched Clegane out of the corner of her eye, to see if he reacted.

 

He was watching her, but with a rather bored expression, like he didn’t care her ass was in the air and her tits spilled out of her top. She had to look like a two-bit prostitute in this outfit. He regarded her with nothing more than detachment, and as she strapped the heels on, she resigned herself to the fact that seducing him might not get her out of this.

 

When she was finally properly dressed, she stood in front of the door and gave him an imploring look. He rose, and despite the heels putting her over 6 feet, he still stared down at her imposingly. They met each other’s eyes, slate grey to her blue, and she couldn’t read a single thought behind his stone eyes. After a moment, he opened the door and she marched out, him following behind.

 

Before she made it back to the main room of the clubhouse she paused, a hand brushing the wall. She needed to draw strength, from what she didn’t know. But she was going to have to go in there and play a part, and she knew she needed to steel herself before she did. A voice, disembodied, floated through her mind. It was something Robb had said to her once, when he’d been mad at her.

 

“You pretend to be so good Sansa, so perfect. You can pretend to be such a good little girl and it’s not fair! You act so perfect.”

 

Not the fondest memory she had of Robb and his temper tantrums, but it gave her a strange sort of feeble strength. She would do it again, pretend and fake it. She could pretend to be a good girl, one of them. And when she got home, she would tell him that, and they would laugh at how something said so harshly in childhood could come so true in adulthood.

 

She became someone else and when she walked into the busy clubhouse, she was simply Sansa. Not Sansa Stark. She’d dropped her last name and all that came with it. She had no ties to anyone, she was alone here and unattached. She wasn’t the daughter of a man murdered here. She wasn’t the sister of the man they called king in the north. She wasn’t anyone.

 

Various members of the club, bikers and women alike, stared outright at her when she stopped. If they were stunned to see her up and about, out of her room, they didn’t say anything. After a moment, they returned to what they had been doing. Ros, the hooker Sansa assumed was mostly in charge, gave her one look that was clearly meant to freeze the blood in her veins, before demanding,

 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

 

“I thought I would come say good morning.” Sansa bit back the desire to spit sass. She was good. She was a good girl.

 

“Good morning.” Ros laughed, a harsh bitter sound.

 

“Good morning.” Sansa said politely back and Clegane, behind her, snorted. Ros’s nostrils flared, but she crossed her arms.

 

“I’m not going to fucking babysit you.” She warned. “I don’t give a fuck about who you think you are. You’re nothing here.”

 

“I would like to help.” Sansa stated, ignoring the barbs. Ros blinked, like she didn’t understand the word, before looking around with a curl of her lips.

 

“Fine. Grab a rag. You’re not better than anyone else here.”

 

“Yes, of course.” Sansa bobbed her head and grabbed one. She was familiar with cleaning, despite everything in the room likely assuming that she was a spoiled brat. Catelyn Stark hadn’t raised her children to take things for granted, and Sansa was never more thankful for it as she took cleaning spray and rag to the dark corner of the clubhouse, away from prying eyes.

 

Every surface in the room seemed to be covered in a sticky substance or ashes or cigarette butts or beer caps. Sansa wasn’t unfamiliar with the carnage— it was similar to what Robb’s clubhouse looked like after a wild weekend, but today was Wednesday. Had they really partied this hard on a Tuesday night? Judging from the lack of men, it seemed they had. The only man in the room was Clegane, and he sat on the couch, lighting a cigarette and flicking idly through the channels on the TV.

 

Sansa took in the people, the girls around her. They were all the same— fake tits, tattoos, too much makeup, hard eyes, and tight clothes. Sansa willed herself to blend in with them, but she knew she didn’t have a chance. She knew what these women were here for— sweet butts, trying to lock down a club member and become an old lady. She wondered how many would succeed.

 

She cleaned up, wiping tables and sweeping floors. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t touch the food that sat out for them to pick at while they worked. She didn’t need to eat, because the hunger kept her mind sharp. She wondered where the men were; if she were to wake up in the twilight hours would she catch them in unawares, would she be able to get out? She’d need more time to figure out the layout of the clubhouse before she tried. She’d have no friends in the women either.

 

As she worked, she listened. She listened to the girls that talked about the men, trying to figure out their natures before they appeared. She gathered, as she tied off the bags of trash, that Ros had her eye on Littlefinger. Sansa remembered his gaze on her the night before and wondered if Ros had saw it too, and that was why she hated Sansa.

 

They talked about Jaime, loudly about how handsome he was, and less loudly at how often it seemed like Cersei was in his bed. They talked about the Toad, always with looks of disgust, and the other club members. Not a one of them said anything about the Hound, and Sansa glanced at him. He sat with a beer now, watching some boxing match on TV. Every few seconds his eyes would find her before flickering back to the screen. It amused her, to think that he was worried about her escape. She would do it when he wasn’t looking.

 

That brought on a new set of problems, she reflected as she lugged the garbage towards the door. Even if she got out, how would she evade the men Joffrey would surely send after her, Clegane included? She mused on that as she stopped to catch her breath. She’d probably have to kill him to stop his tenacious nature. Like he could hear her thoughts, he looked up at her.

 

“Don’t worry,” She said cheerfully, putting her hands up and leaving the garbage bag next to the door. “I promise I won’t take it outside and run away. You can carry it.” She walked away, and knew his eyes were on her the entire way.

 

After the clubhouse was relatively clean, most of the woman disappeared, leaving just a few. Sansa paused by the bar, taking note of the pictures tacked there. She wondered if she’d see some of her father. He’d loved Robert like a brother, and she’d always known him as a jovial sort of uncle. She was just looking at one where Cersei was standing triumphantly beside Jaime, smirking, when the woman herself appeared, striding in. Sansa turned automatically, facing her.

 

“Sansa, good.” Cersei looked like someone had permanently stuck something stinking under her nose. “I see you’ve been helpful.”

 

“Hardly.” Ros snorted. “I bet she’s never done anything like this a day in her fucking life.”

 

“No?” Cersei seemed delighted by that, but Sansa didn’t notice her derision. In her mind, she was repeating a promise to herself.

 

_You’re a Stark and you’ll devour them all._

 

“Stupid girl.” Ros grew bolder. “Dumb bitch.”

 

“She is, isn’t she?” Cersei laughed. “We’ll just have to teach her how to do things properly.”

 

“What do you have in mind?” Ros asked, leaning forward curiously. Cersei’s cool, green eyed gaze inspected Sansa for a long moment, before smiling in a way Sansa knew to be more dangerous than all the weapons any man could carry.

 

“Take her to the studio.” She waved a hand. “She can learn to clean there.”

 

“The…” Sansa bit back her question. What sort of studio would they have? Joffrey didn’t seem like an artist or a singer.

 

“The studio?” Ros raised an eyebrow. “Should she be… Out there?”

 

“She’ll take him.” Cersei waved a dismissive hand at Clegane, who seemed displeased to be brought into the conversation. “You think he’s going to let her go?”

 

“Alright.” Ros didn’t dare defy the queen, so she turned to Clegane and gave him a withering look. “Well, are you going to take the bitch or what?”

 

“Aye.” He growled, standing. He turned and strode for the door and it was all Sansa could do to catch up with him in her ridiculously high heels. The sun outside was beating down in full force and the heat physically stole her breath, making her stop in her tracks in horror. Clegane didn’t stop walking and Sansa wondered how the hell he could wear black and not be dying. He led her to a large black Harley at the end of the row and for a moment she stopped, taking it in.

 

“Nice bike.” She remarked, noting the details. The bike wasn’t shiny chrome like Joffrey’s, who's was meant to draw attention and looked as if it was hardly used. This bike spoke of a man familiar with it, though she could see the modifications he’d made. And on it was painted a snarling dog, looking rather murderously as it charged amidst smoke. In the swirls were a skull and a reaper.

 

He glanced at her, clearly surprised at her comment, but he didn’t say a word of thanks. After a second of looking at her quizzically, he turned and sat down on it. After a long moment, she gathered that she was to sit on it with him, and so she got on, sliding her longs arms around his waist, laying her head against his back, between his shoulder blades.

 

He went tense, but started the bike and began backing it out. She took the chance to look out over the courtyard and the high walls. Men sat along them, smoking, looking to the average passerby to be on a casual break. Sansa knew better. They, and the cameras, were watching. They were always watching. Clegane slowed down, waiting for the gate to be opened.

 

“How many guards?” His words were louder than the engine but not by much and Sansa debated for a moment if she should tell him the truth. Then she decided it couldn’t hurt, so she answered,

 

“Too many.”

 

“You’re learning.” He muttered, before pulling out onto the street.

 

Even if she had wanted to keep track of where they were going, it would’ve been impossible with how fast he drove. Sansa was no stranger to being on the back of fast bikes— it was how she’d grown up, and she still remembered the time Robb had urged the bike to over 100 miles per hour on the bridge coming home one night. Sansa had felt like they were flying. She closed her eyes and pretending this was that night again.

 

When he stopped, it was at a large warehouse, utterly nondescript in every way. He parked the bike near a door simply marked ‘staff’ and waited until she got off before catching her upper arm to prevent her from running. Sansa wondered if he really thought her that stupid, or that smart. She decided it was a compliment he thought she might outrun him in her heels. Either way, she followed him inside.

 

She felt like she was going to throw up upon walking into the large space. It was a porn studio, with cameras shooting different scenes. Topless girls strutted past, and men yelled orders and moved sets. For one horrified moment, Sansa was sure she was going to be forced in front of a camera and made to strip naked. Instead, Clegane practically dragged her towards a hallway, before opening a door.

 

A massive laundry machine awaited her, along with a huge pile of dirty costumes, bed sheets, towels, and more. She looked at them with flat horror, then back at him. He seemed… Not amused, because his face didn’t know such an emotion. But there was something there, as he pulled laundry detergent down from a high shelf and set it unceremoniously in front of her.

 

“Will you bring me a glass of water?” She asked him frostily, before turning to her task. He left, and she heard the door lock behind him. Once she was sure he was far enough from the door, she let out a string of curses, starting with her father’s favorites and ending with Jon’s. She had just finished shoving the first load in when he returned with the water. She took it without thanking him, drinking it all in one go, before setting it down in front of him with a glare. “And now what do I do while I wait for that load to finish, huh?”

 

With an impassive face, he lifted up a basket full of bras and panties, dropping it in front of her with dramatic flair. It took everything in her to school her features into something that didn’t betray her disgust, trying to remind herself that doing the laundry of pornstars was better than doing their job. She headed to the small sink, resigned to hand washing each set.

 

For the better part of what must’ve been the morning and into the afternoon, she did laundry. Washed delicates, folded towels, hung costumes up to dry, tried to remember how her mother had taught her to fold fitted sheets. She wondered what else they would make her do, when suddenly the door opened and she looked up, expecting Clegane to be glaring down at her.

 

Instead it was Littlefinger, and his gaze was far more menacing than Clegane’s ever was. He observed her for a long moment, as she folded a large towel, and she avoided his eyes. She wondered where Clegane was, and if he was within hearing range if she had to suddenly shout out. She knew what men like Littlefinger wanted, what they always wanted.

 

“I am sorry for the mess my… Talent makes.” He spoke first and it came out as slick as oil.

 

“It’s nothing.” She set the towel on top of a growing pile.

 

“Still, a girl like you, doing this work?” His eyes were small, beady, and greedy for the sort of thing that Sansa would never give.

 

“I don’t mind.” She said quickly.

 

“You can’t be too thrilled.” He gave a laugh, an empty, hollow thing.

 

“I don’t mind.” She repeated. She had to be a good girl, but if he made any sort of move towards her, Sansa wasn’t above stabbing him with a stiletto.

 

“You know, you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” Littlefinger took a step closer and she grabbed an empty laundry basket to keep distance between them. “You’d make an excellent star, Sansa. I could make you into a star here. You’d never fold a basket of laundry again.”

 

“No thank you.” She said firmly. “I need to go see what else is needed of me.”

 

“I run this studio.” He blocked her attempt to leave with ease. “And there’s only one thing needed from you.” He took another step closer, leering now, and she tried to keep the basket between them, but he was getting closer and she didn’t—

 

“Girl.” Clegane’s massive figure appeared in the doorway and Littlefinger artfully took the basket from her, as if that had been his only reason for entering in the first place. “Come.”

 

“Sorry.” Sansa apologized to Littlefinger, squeezing past him as fast as she could and hurrying after Clegane as his long strides headed for the exit. She waited until they were outside, back in the heat, when she said quietly, “Thank you.”

 

“For what?” He glanced back, looking annoyed.

 

“For coming.” She waited as he righted the bike. “If you hadn’t came when you did, that creep would’ve… Well, I don’t know. But the way he looks at me…” She shuddered and he gave her a long look.

 

“Get on now.” He ordered her tonelessly, not bothering to acknowledge her discomfort or her gratitude. “The queen wants you.”

 

“Lucky me.” She sighed and got on. This time, she resolved to try and get her bearings, figuring out where they were. No luck. He drove like the devil himself was coming for them, and Sansa had hardly figured out what direction they were going in before they were back at the clubhouse. She got off, looking up at the bright sun. It was late in the afternoon, judging how low it sat. With a wave of fear, she realized that Joffrey’s bike had joined the fray. He was back then.

 

“Come on.” Clegane had her forearm now and was pulling her towards the clubhouse. She went, determined not to stumble on her heels. She used her free hand to yank up her tank top up and pull down her shorts, though she knew it did little for her modesty.

 

“Sansa!” Joffrey’s voice was shrill when she walked inside. After a second, her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she saw all the men and the woman that sat around, all looking at her with hostile eyes. Joffrey was sitting at the bar. “Come here!” He ordered.

 

“Go.” Clegane shoved her gently and Sansa walked towards Joffrey, trying not to tremble.

 

“We were just toasting your brother.” Joffrey smirked, lifting his shot glass high. “Sit on my lap, c'mon.” He gestured to the bartender to pour her a shot and though every fiber of her being revolted against it, she sat on his thigh, as he pressed the whiskey into her hand. “To Robb Stark, king in the north,” Joffrey cried, raising his glass high. “Long may he rot.”

 

“Cheers.” She whispered, the alcohol passing her numb lips and burning on the way down. She just wanted to be drunk, to forget all that was happening, but she knew what would happen then. Still, she allowed herself just this one to numb her.

 

“When I met Robb Stark, I’m going to blow his brains out.” Joffrey was boasting confidently, his sweaty palm gripping Sansa like a vice.

 

“I’ve heard that they fuck dogs there.” Someone yelled, to a riot of laughter.

 

“Only because there’s no different between dogs and whores!”

 

“No, the dogs are better looking!”

 

“And are probably a better fuck!”

 

Most of the night went on like that. Joffrey drank and drank, until he could hardly sit straight. Sansa sat, straight as a rod, on his lap, until finally he was so drunk that she moved away and faded into the shadows. No one noticed her absence, except Clegane, who moved to shadow her. She looked up at him, exhausted, and didn’t bother to ask the question. To her surprise, he nodded at the unspoken, and accompanied her upstairs to the room that had became hers.

 

When he closed the door, every instinct told her to collapse into the bed and cry her furious tears away. Her shoulders were tense, and her feet ached from the heels, so she kicked them off first. She should shower, get the grime off her, but she was so tired, and the world was spinning, and she wanted to empty her stomach, but nothing was there and—

 

A strong hand found her elbow, but he wasn’t detaining her, he was helping her. She looked up at him, surprised, but he wore the same steady expression as always. After a second, she comprehended his meaning and nodded her thanks. He held her steady as she got ready for bed, and when she had changed into shorts and a tank top, he let her crawl into bed. She didn’t even realize she’d made a noise of protest when he went to leave until he froze, hand on the door knob.

 

“What?” He demanded angrily.

 

“Don’t go.” Her words were weak, even to her. “Anyone else will let him in.”

 

“And I won’t?” His laugh was humorless. They both knew what fear she was talking about. Sansa weighed her options. Since neither Joffrey or Cersei had mocked her with the necklace she’d given him, it stood to reason that he might not be completely in their pocket.

 

“No, you won’t.” She didn’t have an argument besides a gut feeling, and she knew that wasn’t much to work off of. She’d made too many stupid choices based on a gut choice, and look where she’d wound up. But this was more. She held her breath until he let go of the door and sat down in the chair, taking off his belt and vest, setting the gun within easy reach on the empty bookshelf.

 

“I’m a light sleeper.” He informed her and she knew it was a warning. He was a light sleeper, so if she even thought about escaping or hurting him or anything else of that nature, she could consider whatever this fragile trust was gone. She didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead she rolled over, and pretended she was home, and the snoring coming from him was nothing but her father, and she was safe.

 

* * *

 

Dictionary: 

Kutte - Leather vests bikers wear

Patches - patches on a kutte that symbolize rank or deeds 

Rocker - identifier on a kutte, typically what state the club is in

Sweet Butt - woman who sleeps with club members in hopes of having a relationship

Old Lady - wife of a club member, usually of higher status than sweet butts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, I love this story, and I so welcome comments, feedback, reviews, etc. Seriously, it makes my day like nothing else. Thank you for reading, share this with someone you'd like would like it, and come back next week!


	3. Closer, Kings of Leon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next installment - thank you guys so much for your response to this. It's be super duper awesome and encouraging. This is far and above my favorite story I've done, so I hope you like it too. 
> 
> Sidebar, I'm probably going to be posted aesthetics and moodboards for this on my tumblr and will link here, so just a heads up if you like those sorts of things!

Guarding her was worse than Joffrey, he realized. So far, in the few days that Sansa Stark had arrived to them, her days were utterly boring. She would wake and get ready. That in and of itself was a form of torture. Since she would have no one else guard her, morning or night, he slept in the same room as her and would often be awoken to her showering. She’d wear the towel for a few long minutes, prancing about as water dripped off her body.

 

Joffrey never took so long picking out his clothes, and he never looked so damn infuriating in them. He knew it wasn’t Sansa’s fault that the only clothes Cersei provided made her look like a two dollar hooker. What was her fault was the way she filled them out, with her tiny waist, long legs, tight ass, and perky tits. She stubbornly refused to wear anything but the stripper heels, and it did things to him, things he hated, when she walked past him and he’d catch a whiff of the cheap perfume Joffrey had gotten her.

 

He’d get relief from her in the morning, so he could work out. She’d spend her mornings with Cersei and the other girls, and he knew they’d never allow her to go anywhere. Usually anytime after lunch he was ordered to take her to the porn studio, where there were always tasks for her. Endless laundry, scrubbing sets, emptying the trash, restocking condoms, plunging toilets. Whatever it was, she did it without complaints, and always turned down Littlefinger when he approached her, always offering the same thing.

 

Agree to be on camera, end all the chores.

 

He was relieved, for reasons he didn’t know, when she declined every time. He found he liked her better for it. He may not have values or morals, but she did, and not even the awful reality of her life now could stop her from upholding them. So he followed her around, in those tiny shorts and stupid heels, trying to keep himself and everything else in check.

 

He knew he was doing a good job, because no one was the wiser. They just all thought he was doing his job exceptionally well because Joffrey had offered him a bonus for every week that passed and Sansa Stark remained with them, alive, and breathing. He was just allowing himself a moment of satisfaction while the club partied on Saturday night, when he noticed her stumbling towards the bathroom, after Joffrey had forced another shot down her throat.

 

Mildly alarmed, he followed her, already annoyed and ready with some remark about girls who couldn’t hold their alcohol, when he heard her retching. He opened the door to the bathroom and there she was, crumpled on the ground, head in the toilet. Not sure who he was more pissed at, her or Joffrey, he knelt to grab her and pull her up when he looked inside the bowl.

 

He would’ve expected to see chunks of food, of her dinner come back up. There was nothing there, nothing but liquid and it an alarming black color. Sansa was pale, paler than he’d ever seen her and after a moment, he tried to recall if he’d actually seen her eat. Of course she hadn’t, she simply pushed her food around and then stared at it in disinterest. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen her eat anything substantial since arriving, and now it was Saturday night.

 

Cursing a blue streak, he gathered her up in his arms, before checking to see if anyone was in the hallway. When it was empty, he hurried upstairs and into her room. He threw her unceremoniously onto the bed. She stirred feebly and he tilted her head so if she did throw up again, it wouldn’t choke her. Then he disappeared back for the kitchen, trying his hardest not to be seen. When he finally made it back up to her room, he breathed a sigh of relief, clutching some meat and cheese he’d stolen from the fridge, as well as a banana. He hadn’t known what else to grab, so this had to work.

 

“Girl.” He prodded her hard in the ribs and she groaned. “Girl, sit up.”

 

“I… Can’t.” Her voice was raspy and so he offered her a glass of water. After a pause, she seemed to realize what it was and took a long drink, flinching as she swallowed some of her bile.

 

“Eat this.” He gave her a look that brokered no argument, offering her the banana. She looked at it for a long moment, then back at him and deliberately shook her head. “Now.” He shook it under her nose.

 

“No.” She croaked, drawing her knees up and he glared at her. Was he imagining it, or were her cheeks a little hollower? Did her arms seem a little thinner?

 

“You’re not starving yourself, not on my watch.” He growled at her. “Now fucking eat, or I will force it down your throat.”

 

“Will you?” She was trying to put up a good fight, he’d give her that. If he hadn’t been so pissed, he would’ve admitted it out loud.

 

“Aye, so eat.” He pressed the banana into her hand.

 

“If I don’t, I could die.” She said wistfully, staring at the banana thoughtfully. “I would shrivel up into absolutely nothing, I would just fade from existence, no one would even remember that I was here.”

 

“Now.” He was getting angry now, and so with one hand, he forced her down onto the bed. She struggled, but she was so weak it was like holding off a kitten. He kept one hand holding her down and used the other to force a bit of cheese into her mouth. She struggled against him, but she was tired, and fast fading. He glared holes into her skull until finally she stopped thrashing and began to chew.

 

“No.” She muttered, when he reached for the meat. “No, please--”

 

“You’re eating.” He declared, still holding her down. What alarmed him most was not the fact that she wasn’t eating— the light was gone from her eyes. The girl he’d met the few days prior would’ve fought him, eyes flashing. She had been something to fear. No, what caused him dread was how fast she had lost her luster just a few days into her captivity. Like a flower ripped from the earth.

 

“Please.” Tears were running down her cheeks, but when he pushed food into her mouth, she chewed, until she’d finished off everything he’d brought. Then, and only then did he get up and move back. Sansa curled in on herself and he wondered if she was weeping or was silent, unfeeling. He was at loss. He could leave her now, and he doubted she’d make any trouble. At the same time, he was conflicted. He didn’t know what possessed him to do it, but he knelt beside the bed and caught her chin in his hand.

 

“Girl.” He said quietly and she opened those blue eyes. No tears, no light, no spark, nothing. Just dullness. He reached into the innermost pocket of his kutte, fingers catching the delicate chain and pulling it out. Sansa’s eyes followed the wolf charm as it caught the light. He pooled it into her palm, much like she had the first night with him, and said quietly, “You need to eat.”

 

She was quiet, staring at the tangle of chain and charms for so long he feared maybe she really had faded to nothingness. Then she reached one trembling finger out and stroked the tiny wolf. Something flickered back into her eyes and she raised the wolf to her lips, saying a silent prayer he didn’t hear. Then she reached back out and handed the necklace back to him.

 

“Fine.” It was just a word, one single word, but he knew what it meant. If she meant to let herself die, she would’ve taken the wolf back and died holding onto it. He hoped this meant she would make the decision to live. He stood, putting the necklace back where it would be safe, and looked down at her. Tonight, she’d dressed in a skintight dress of the most gaudy gold, and she still wore black heels. A moment later she was slumped limply on the bed, eyes shut tightly.

 

“Fuck me.” He said quietly, because he didn’t want her to hear. Then he reached down and started to unlace the heels. Sansa’s feet twitched but she did nothing to stop him, so he proceeded until her feet were bare. Then he made the mistake of glancing up.

 

From this angle, her legs appeared endless and her ass was the most prominent feature, rounded and supple. He wondered what it would feel like in his hands, how it would look if she sat on his face and— He cut himself off when he realized he was half hard already. He abruptly straightened up, but that was the wrong decision. Sansa, half asleep now, was trying to shimmy out of her dress, and she’d half succeeded. It was around her waist, and her top was clad in only a black lace bra.

 

He gawked at her, unable to do anything else as she pushed the dress off her hips. He wondered, distantly, if she knew he was still there, and getting harder by the second. Guessing from how she couldn’t get her limbs to work right, and how she was seemingly asleep already, he would wager all his money she didn’t. Soon enough, she had the dress by her ankles and she kicked it off, passing out in her bra and panties atop the covers.

 

He tried to take it all in, even if it was wrong and disgusting. He knew there was a very good chance he’d never see it again, so he drank his fill. From her slender, delicate ankles, up those thin legs, to the ass that was just as magnificent as he’d imagined from those damned shorts, to the small of her back, dotted with two deep dimples, up that long neck, where her hair was piled on top of her head like a burst of orange.

 

After a second, he started and realized what had happened. Here he was, a grown man, a killer, standing over the bed of a young girl, hard as a rock in his jeans. He looked like a damned idiot, that was for sure and with a snarl, he walked out, making sure to lock the door behind him and keep the key to himself. Then, once he was under control, he strode back into the party, catching a hooker by the arm.

 

“Sorry, I—“ She stammered, before remembering herself and looking at Joffrey. He glanced over and howled in amusement, laughing cruelly.

 

“Does the dog want a bone?” It seemed to amuse him to no end, and the girl went pale. “Go, go with him then!” He ordered, waving a hand. “Be his bitch for a night.”

 

“C’mon.” He growled, pulling her towards an unoccupied dorm room. He just needed sex, nothing else. That was all it was, he was pent up from the events of the week and needed release. That was the only reason that he had reacted the way he had with Sansa. He pointed to the bed and the woman crawled onto it, looking miserable. He didn’t care, as he pulled off his belt and his kutte.

 

“I—“ She began, before falling silent when she realized there was nothing she could do. Joffrey’s word was law here. Only fools denied him. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a crisp hundred dollar bill, offering it to her. She took it with wide eyes.

 

“Until I’m done.” He commanded and she nodded, tucking the money into her bra and lying back with more gusto than before.

 

“Do whatever you want with me.” She tried to sound seductive, but he just gestured for her to flip over before closing his eyes and imagining the girl upstairs, in her black bra, with her flaming hair. If he kept his eyes closed, he could pretend it was her long enough to get himself off.

 

He kept the hooker until he’d been satisfied three times. Then, while she passed out, he got up and went to the shower, rinsing it all away. That should keep him satisfied for awhile, and kept any repeat problems from arising, quite literally. He left, ignoring the partying happening in the clubhouse, going upstairs. He’d sleep outside her room tonight. He didn’t want her to get the impression that he’d seen her naked. He certainly didn’t want her to know he’d seen that and how he’d felt because of it.

 

Besides, he reflected, watching with hooded eyes as a girl, giggling, pulled some club member into a dorm room, he’d have to kill any man who stumbled into her room. And this was one job he preferred not to get fired from.

 

In the morning, he woke up stiff and groaning, but otherwise not that much worse for wear. He let himself into Sansa’s room to check on her, and was surprised to see that she was already up and showered, sitting amidst her tousled blankets with wet hair. Her eyes flickered up when he entered and he hung back awkwardly, trying not to think of the night before.

 

“What did you see then?” She asked dully, gazing at her fingers.

 

“Nothing.” He lied, so well practiced he almost believed himself. “I did your shoes. You did the rest yourself. I slept outside. I thought you needed space.”

 

“I needed space?” She sounded furious and he might’ve been amused at how relieved he was to see a resurgence of her fighting spirit, if he hadn’t been so conflicted about why he was having these feelings at all. “You shoved food down my throat, then gave me space? That’s what you call giving me space?”

 

“You weren’t eating.” He said lowly and she glared at him furiously. “You don’t eat, you die. You die, I don’t get paid. You’re eating.”

 

“I don’t want to.” She had a pretty mouth when it was screwed up in determination, he realized.

 

“Yes, you are.” He said it with a tone of a threat. “Or I will hold you down, every fucking day, and fucking force it into you.”

 

“And what else will you force into me?” She snapped and that at least seemed to silence both of them.

 

“Fucking eat.” He went to leave, too full of roiling emotions to keep himself contained, when her sweet voice stopped him.

 

“Clegane, wait! Please.” She said, full of sorrow, and slowly on his heel he turned to look at her. She fiddled with her fingers before looking up with genuine remorse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… That. I just…” She looked towards the window, and he knew what she didn’t have to say.

 

“You have to eat.” He said, but softer now. “Or you’ll get weaker.”

 

“I’m already weak.” She said faintly, almost as if she didn’t care if he heard her or not. “I’ve always been weak. I’m not them.”

 

“Them?” He couldn’t help but ask it and when she turned back to him, there was something in her expression that he couldn’t quite understand.

 

“My family.” She took a deep breath and then ran her fingers through her still wet hair. “Thank you for taking care of me last night. I’m sure it was a pain in the ass. I promise not to do it again.”

 

“Good.” He said and then paused, remembering how fragile she had been the night before. “No one usually gets up until noon after shit like that. You could stay here most of the morning, no one is going notice. I’ll… Bring you breakfast.” He paused on the last bit and Sansa raised an eyebrow.

 

“That’d be nice, thank you.” Still looking skeptical, she gave a little nod and he disappeared. He tried to think, as he made them microwave breakfast burritos, why the hell she mattered at all. Because she was his meal ticket, that was all. If he kept her around long enough, Joffrey would cut him a big fat check and he could leave all this shit behind. He carried the burritos upstairs, letting him back into her room. She was braiding her hair and looked up when he thrust the plate at her.

 

“Here.” He stated flatly and she paused, blinking.

 

“Thank you but I can’t eat two.” She told him very politely and he rolled his eyes, snatching one for himself. After a second, comprehension dawned and she actually smiled, finishing off her long braid. “Ah, you’re joining me for breakfast.”

 

“Aye,” He tried to keep his temper in check. “Unless you can’t stand my ugly face.”

 

“Of course I can.” She was a little more cheerful today, as she took a bite then instantly opened her mouth, grimacing in pain. “Hot, hot, hot.” He chuckled and ripped a corner so some of the steam could escape.

 

“Never had microwaved food before?” He meant for it to be mocking, but when Sansa snorted, he looked at her quizzically.

 

“Are you kidding me? We practically lived on it as kids. It was all Robb and Jon knew how to make.” For a second, her voice faltered before she continued. “When I got a little older, I learned how to cook because it was that or keep up my diet of hot pockets and ramen noodles.”

 

“And your father and mother weren’t there to make you dinner every night?” That did come out harsh and Sansa was silent.

 

“Some nights.” She said quietly. “But honestly he was running things most days. Wasn’t like there was time for his kids, not all six of us. And my mom, she’s always so busy working and trying to support us, that usually it fell to us older ones to raise the littles.”

 

“Oh.” He said, a little dumbly, because from what he had always heard, it seemed like the Starks led a charmed life up in NorCal. He never imagined that they might possibly have issues of their own. Sansa was quiet, eating her burrito, before she finally glanced at him.

 

“You kept it.” She didn’t have to say anything else. They both knew what she was referring to.

 

“Aye.” He didn’t know what else to say, so he took a particularly big bite of his burrito.

 

“Why?”

 

“You asked me to.”

 

“Why keep a promise to me? I’m just a prisoner, and a bad one at that.”

 

“You didn’t ask for any of this.” He turned to look at her, surprised at how honest his answer had been. Quickly, he tried to backtrack, least she think that he was soft, and she could use him in her inevitable escape. It was coming, he just knew she wasn’t sure when. “And you’re a fucking paycheck to me girl, nothing more. I don’t give a rat’s ass about north or south or whatever happened between you and Joffrey’s fathers. I keep you alive, I get fucking paid. That’s all.”

 

“Ah.” Her eyes were flashing, but she didn’t press any further. When she finished the burrito, she balled her garbage and tossed it into the garbage before drawing her knees up and resting her chin on them, staring vacantly into the distance. After a few minutes ticked past, he blurted out,

 

“How have you not gone screaming mad with boredom?”

 

“What else is there to do?” She looked at him. “I don’t have a computer or a phone, and you’re never going to give me access to one. I don’t even have a fucking book to read.”

 

“Fucking christ.” He swore, standing up, trying to understand yet again his actions. “Stay here, alright?”

 

“Alright.” She was watching him with interest and he disappeared, finding the trashy celebrity magazines that most of the hookers read during their free time. He gathered the stack and carried them back to Sansa, spilling them out onto the bed. She raised an eyebrow as she picked on up, inspecting the cover that extolled the last and greatest sex tape by some c-list scarlet.

 

“There.” He was rather proud of his find.

 

“Thank you?” Sansa opened the cover of one, reading the headline about some alien baby with an incredulous expression. “I guess there’s no Jane Eyre to be found here.”

 

“What?” He tried to think if that was the title of some porn film.

 

“It’s a literary classic.” Sansa didn’t even look at him. “It was written even before you were born, so I don’t expect you to have a grasp on it.”

 

He snorted at that, sure it was meant as an affront. Let her have her one blow, if it kept the little smile she had now on her face for more than a moment. Her little smile kept, as she slowly worked her way through the magazines, reading even the ads. He knew what came after them; back to the bleak boredom. Soon though, the rest of the clubhouse would wake up and then she’d get stuck doing some chores or sitting as Joffrey’s trophy, as he flung insults at her family.

 

But right now, the sun was just streaming in, he was working on his gun, and Sansa was reading quietly beside him. It was calm and as he took the gun apart slowly and put it back together, he fell into a sort of peaceful trance, one that allowed his thoughts the clear. Until he heard a commanding,

 

“Dog!”

 

“Shit.” Sansa scrambled to hide all the magazines. She had just tucked them under the mattress and sat back down neatly on the bed when Joffrey strode in, looking at the pair of them. Sansa, still in her pajamas, quietly staring at the floorboards, and Clegane, neatly fitting the last pieces of his gun together.

 

“Clegane.” Joffrey looked at him, arms folded. He simply blinked. “Leave us.”

 

“Best not.” He didn’t need to look at her to know that Sansa’s spine had gone rigid. Before Joffrey could protest, he added, “Don’t know what the bitch might do.”

 

“Think I can’t hold my own against her?” Joffrey demanded furiously. “Are you—“

 

“I get paid to protect you.” He said flatly, cutting him off. “I’ll slit her throat if she tries anything.”

 

“Fine.” Joffrey’s eyes always gleamed when he thought of murder, and gruesome ones at that. “Not too early though, I haven’t had any fun with her yet.” He reached out and ran a finger down Sansa’s arm. To her credit, the only outward sign of her revulsion was the smallest shiver.

 

“She’ll come with me today.” Clegane stood, putting the gun in its holster and both Sansa and Joffrey looked at him in disbelief. Before Joffrey could protest, he added, “You have things to be done.”

 

“Fine.” Joffrey took it like a sullen child. “What will you do?”

 

“Remind her why you pay me so much.”

 

“Alright.” Joffrey allowed it with a wave. “You’re right, I have a club to run and a man to kill.” He smiled wickedly at Sansa before going to depart. Sansa stood to do what, strike him? Before she could even raise a hand, he had grabbed her wrist and held her still so that Joffrey left, unaware. For a moment, she vibrated with tension, before she realized the foolishness of her actions. She looked up at him and opened her mouth, likely to chirp some thanks, but he cut her off.

 

“Get dressed. No heels.”

 

“Where are we going?” Sansa went to pilfer her clothes, trying to find an appropriate outfit.

 

“Gun range.” He declared and her head snapped up, but he didn’t seem to be joking and so slowly she selected shorts and a tank top, heading to the bathroom to change. When she came out, she remembered his no heels decree and gave him an imploring look. After a second, he sighed and went to go locate a pair of biker boots that would suit her feet. Someone had left a pair and he tossed them to her.

 

“Well, thanks.” Sansa said, with faux pleasure. “Just want I asked for.”

 

“Hurry up.” He grunted, as she bent and pulled them on. Most of the clubhouse was still asleep, so they picked their way through the damage, before making it outside. The sun was already hot for the day, and it would only get worse. He didn’t much care for the heat, but he didn’t much care for the cold either, so he dealt. When he sat down on his bike, she slipped her arms around him like it was a natural thing.

 

He had to hold his breath then, when she was in such close proximity. That, or risk imploding in some way. She would usually lay her head between his shoulder blades, like his body was built just for that purpose. Once or twice she’d tried to straighten up and see over his shoulder, but he was taller than her and she’d just dug her chin into his shoulder. None of that was as bad as her hands, clasped just below his breast bone. Those long, slender fingers, sometimes resting on his waist or thighs. Her front, pressed to his back, and all that came with it.

 

It was torture and he could never get off his bike fast enough.

 

When they got to the gun range, little more than a few targets set up for him to aim at, he parked and looked at Sansa sternly. She was taking in the scenery with wide eyes, before looking up at him. She was innocence then, when he removed her from their clutches, and he wondered idly if he should do it more.

 

“What, no telling me not to run away?” She questioned. “No threatening to kill me if I so much as take ten steps away?”

 

“You know I will.” He declared, grabbing the guns he intended to shoot. Watching Sansa was boring work, and he wanted to stay in practice. “And where would you go from here?”

 

“North.” Sansa turned in the direction, staring like she was willing herself to be magically transported away. “Always, north.”

 

“Good fucking luck.” He went to arrange the targets. “You’re too smart to run when you know you won’t get far.” He didn’t need to look back to know that Sansa was either surprised or amused by his quip. Either reaction was fine by him.

 

He fired until he could blow a hole through the center of target, and quickly. Only occasionally did he glance back to see what Sansa was doing. She’d shed her boots and was running through the sandy terrain, sprinting before jogging back down. Once he noticed how strangely beautiful it was; her lanky form running, braid bouncing behind her. He wondered if she had more pent up energy than she’d ever shown before.

 

“You’re good.” She jogged over to him, panting, and he noticed that she was sweating.

 

“You smell.” He wrinkled her nose and Sansa’s face didn’t change.

 

“You think? If I don’t shower, maybe Joffrey won’t touch me.”

 

“It will take more than that.” He grunted and Sansa’s eyes flickered to the weapons laid out in front of him.

 

“Alright.”

 

“Don’t.” He didn’t need any more than one word to warn her. Sansa looked up at him, and the strength was coming back. He wanted to keep growing it, despite knowing it was more than dangerous.

 

“I won’t.”

 

“Aye, and your word means so much.” He said, heavy on the sarcasm.

 

“My word is all I have.” Sansa said quietly. “If I don’t keep it, what even am I anymore?”

 

“I don’t know.” He didn’t know why, but he reached for the little pistol, one that would fit in her palm and not kick, offering it to her. “Can you even use it?”

 

“Yes.” She said promptly, turning to the last remaining target. After a moment, she fired, and he was impressed to see a hole, near the center, but not directly. “My brothers, they’re better. And my sister Arya, she’s the best. Better than Robb and Jon one day I bet.”

 

“Your siblings then.” He watched as she raised the gun again, trying to get closer to the target. After she fired, she nodded.

 

“Robb and Jon, twins. Then me. Then Arya, she’s a pain in the ass. Then Bran, and Rickon.” She explained. “My mother always wanted a big family, but I don’t think even she knew what it was going to be like with six of us. Do you have any?”

 

“Aye,” He stared into the distance. “I did.”

 

“Oh.” Sansa obviously caught the past tense and she sent one more shot into the target. “I was never much good. I never cared for it as much as the others.” To his surprise, she handed him back the pistol without so much as thinking about aiming it at his head, though there were certainly rounds left. He took it, tucking it away with care, alarmed at what he’d done.

 

“And what did you care for?” He lied to himself, saying that if he knew what she liked, he wouldn’t have to entertain her so frequently.

 

“Running.” Sansa laughed, a little hollowly, looking back at her tracks in the sand. “And drawing. I could never shoot a gun or drive a bike like my brothers and Arya, but I would draw.”

 

“Well keep practicing your aim.” He had gathered everything up, and was striding back to his bike. She trailed him. “Joffrey is a skinny bastard.”

 

“Oh—“ That startled a laugh out of her and she stopped in her tracks. “You—“

 

“He pays me.” He offered her a water bottle, sure that she’d be dehydrated if she didn’t drink. “Doesn’t mean I can’t think he’s a cunt.”

 

“I guess not.” Sansa took the water and drank, lost in thought.

 

“Don’t get any ideas.” He warned her.

 

“What ideas?” Sansa handed him back the water bottle. “I am just a stupid girl, and I’ll never be anything but a stupid girl. Cersei is right.”

 

He would’ve said something, but then he saw the glint in her eyes and wondered when the hell he’d come to actively root against his employers. It was distressing.

 

For lunch, they stopped at a shitty little diner. He forbid her from speaking to anyone but him, and reminded her the entire town was in Joffrey’s pocket, but she didn’t seem to mind much. She ordered chicken strips with fries and a milkshake, eating the fries by dipping them in the ice cream. She watched, with amusement, as he devoured triple the amount of food she did.

 

“What?” He grunted and Sansa regarded him for a long moment.

 

“Won’t you make yourself sick?”

 

“No.” He finished off a cheeseburger. “I don’t peck at my food like a little bird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, reviews are honestly gold and so inspirational. I really enjoy interacting with you all. (if you're ever shy about leaving me a review, plz don't be. I'm the most extroverted human there is.)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. When You Break, Bear's Den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! A whole day early, cause I get to travel this weekend, hope you like it cause we're back with some Sansa! Fun note, I just realized how little I write from her perspective, so I hope you all enjoy this as much as I do! This chapter has a slight TW for mentions of sexual harassment/assault/etc, just a heads up.
> 
> As always, the support behind this fic is too amazing. Thank you so much, and read on!

It was interesting that he’d let her out with him, that he’d let her come with him. He actually offered, or rather ordered, that she be with him today, away from her now standard chores and the prying eyes of the club. She dipped another fry in her milkshake, trying not to think about how this was the way Arya ate her fries. Sansa missed her, despite the fact that they couldn’t yet have a conversation that didn’t dissolve into an argument.

 

And he’d handed her a gun, which was massive. She thought, idly, that he knew. He knew she would try to escape. Hell, he’d practically encouraged it, after her breakdown. She was still a little angry at the blurry memory of him forcing her to eat a banana, holding her down like she was nothing, but she knew she’d forgiven him by the time he took her heels off.

 

He was watching out for her. He reminded her that she was a wolf, even though she felt like she’d lost that part of herself. But he knew that she was smart enough to wait and play her cards right. There was no use escaping when she would just be recaptured and made to face a furious Joffrey. She’d bide her time then, and she wouldn’t lose hope like she had before.

 

He was to thank for that then. She resolved that he might not be all that bad then, and he might even be an ally, if she didn’t get too ambitious with it. Still, he’d said more words to her today than he had the first whole week, and he’d even asked her questions. She wondered if she could reverse Stockholm Syndrome him— make him feel empathy for his captive?

 

She had to keep focus on how the hell she was going to get away from him and Joffrey and back to Jon and Robb and her family. She had to focus on everything but what was going to come tonight, because she knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant. She needed a plan of action. She decided to try something, and so she finished off a chicken strip and said,

 

“Don’t take me back there.”

 

“Not likely.” He snorted. “I get paid, remember?”

 

“I could pay you.” She said slowly. “Or at least, my brother could. He’s the King in the North, you know.” She didn’t mean it, not really. She was just testing the waters, seeing how far she could get him to go. She knew he wouldn’t tell Joffrey about this conversation, or it was a risk she was willing to take, since he held her necklace and hadn’t shown anyone else.

 

“Not like he can.” He was watching her and she wasn’t stupid enough to think he didn’t know, or at least suspect the exact thoughts running through her mind.

 

“Alright.” She dropped the topic; she’d gotten far enough for one day. She didn’t want to push him. He was the closest thing she had to a friend or an ally here, and if she ruined whatever balance they had, she’d ruin everything. Better to have patience, like she did when she drew. She never began painting without an idea or a sketch. That was how to do it.

 

“Done?” He demanded, when he had finished all his food, paid the check, and was glaring at her. Cheekily, she slurped her milkshake, before setting it down.

 

“First you tell me if I don’t eat, you’ll force feed me. Now you’re rushing me?” She was sassy, but she couldn’t help it. She knew she could be, around him, and it felt good to say something remotely like what Sansa Stark might have. There was no one else she could be herself with here.

 

“Let’s go.” He looked annoyed, but she decided she knew better. If he really was angry, she’d know. She followed him out the diner, instantly sweaty once again. It was how she was learning to live now, and despite the water she’d drank in the diner, she felt the dull pound of a dehydration headache. She wanted a shower and a nap, especially when she knew what would happen soon. But there was no time, not with Clegane storming around. She had no choice but to follow.

 

She was sure he’d take her back to the clubhouse, but they didn’t head that way. Instead, they were driving out of town, the buildings growing sparser. For a moment, a crazy thought flickered into her head; was he dragging her out here to murder her? No, he wouldn’t. Would he?

 

When he stopped at a point overlooking the wilderness, Sansa got off the bike and went to see the view. It was the desert, spread out as far as the eye could see, with nothing in the distance but sand and cacti. The sun beat down on it all, relentless. The expanse of freedom mocked her. Sansa sighed at it, and couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her words when she asked—

 

“Did you take me here to remind me that there’s no way I could run?”

 

“No.” He was taking out a cigarette to smoke. “Not at all. I breathe up here.”

 

“You breathe?” In confusion, she looked back at him. He leaned against the bike, smoking, looking out over the desert as well. In the bright sunlight, his scars seemed starker, but not scary. She’d found that studying them removed the fear from her at his appearance. She’d seen plenty of men with scars before, and the most terrifying thing about Clegane was the fury in his eyes.

 

“Aye. Easier here.”

 

“You don’t like the city.” Sansa knew that much, from observing him. He was always tense, but this morning at the range was the closest she’d seen him be to relaxed, ever.

 

“No.” His eyes flickered to her and back again to the landscape.

 

“Did you grow up in the country then?” She asked him, trying not to think of Winterfell and it’s sprawling lands she was raised on.

 

“Of sorts.” He remarked. “Not like this.” He gestured to the gently rolling hills.

 

“Me either. Where I come from, there’s a lot more trees. It’s not so dry.” Sansa gingerly poked her already reddening skin. “Or so fucking hot.”

 

“The fucking heat.” He agreed, in a tone that almost seemed to commiserating with her. Sansa turned to look at him, in his black shirt and leather kutte.

 

“Doesn’t seem to bother you.” She remarked, gesturing to his long pants and full beard. Even his hair, black as it was, had to be hot.

 

“Acquired talent.” He tapped a bit of ash off his cigarette and Sansa moved to be upwind of it, wrinkling her nose at the smell of it. She’d always hated when people smoked.

 

“Where are you from?” She asked curiously. “Your accent, it’s not Cali.”

 

“No.” He puffed on the cigarette and Sansa decided to keep talking.

 

“Not even the states, is it?” She mused, facing him and folding her arms. “You don’t sound east coast, or from the south. It’s different.”

 

“Aye.” He seemed amused, and allowed her to continue her little game.

 

“And you say aye…” She pursed her lips. “Are you a pirate?”

 

“Pirates don’t say aye.”

 

“They did, long ago. But fine, not anymore. Who says aye?” She tapped her foot and he gave her no clue as to where he may come from with his impassive face and his cigarette. “Are you from England?”

 

“Fuck no!”

 

“So which is it then?” Sansa was smiling and when he gave her a confused look, she clarified, “Only the Scottish and the Irish get that offended when you ask them if they’re from England. Suppose the French do too, but you’re not French. Your accent is dulled, I can’t tell.”

 

“Smart.” He muttered, putting the butt of his cigarette out under the sole of his boot. Sansa wondered if he’d actually tell her, or if she had pushed too far. She genuinely was curious. “Where’d you learn that bit, about us hating the English?”

 

“Haven’t you always?” She turned back to look at the desert. “Strange people, come into your land, make you follow their king, erase your religions, your histories, your traditions.”

 

“Fucking English.” He actually stood and joined her, standing beside her so he too could take in the view. “Fucking cunts.”

 

“Scottish then.” Her mouth tugged up into a smile and he looked down at her, surprise clearly written across his face. “Scots love calling people cunts.”

 

“Traveled there, have you?” He mocked but she was past being offended by his tone. It was almost comforting, at this point. She never knew what Joffrey or his mother would do, or how any of the girls or bikers would treat her. But Clegane, he was steady and straightforward, bad-tempered and growly. Consistent.

 

“No, but I would like to.” Sansa informed him. “I’d like to go see the wilderness there. I imagine it’s got a little different scenery than this.”

 

“Aye,” He overlooked the sparse trees and the dirt. “Different.”

 

“Where were you from?” Sansa tried, but he was done with the opening up, walking back to his bike. She sighed but counted this as a win nonetheless. When he started the engine, revving it pointedly, she knew she had to get back on.

 

This time, he did take her back to the clubhouse and when he stopped, she stayed on the bike, even after he’d stopped and parked. She stared up at the red building, dread pooling in her stomach. It was time then, and nothing she could do would put it off any longer. Noticing her lack of movement, he turned around and gave her a withering look.

 

“Off, girl.”

 

“If I walk in there, Joffrey will rape me.” Her tone was resigned. She knew that was the only possible outcome, and she was simply surprised it hadn’t happened earlier. She had assumed, the second he’d marched her in there, that she would be no more than a sweet butt, sent to be passed around and be forced to warm a different bed every night.

 

“No, he won’t.” Clegane said firmly and she turned her eyes onto him.

 

“And you’re so certain of this how?”

 

“Off.” He ordered and she did as told, surprised when the hand he placed on her shoulder was actually gentle. He steered her into the clubhouse, which was thankfully devoid of the club members, and instead was filled with women who were preparing for the party that would happen there.

 

“Sansa!” Cersei arrived in their path, all sharp green eyes and sneers. “Why on earth are you so dirty? Did you roll in the dirt?”

 

“I made her run.” Clegane growled before Sansa could answer and Cersei looked up at him, surprised. “Reminded her what would happen if she tried to escape.”

 

“Oh, well,” Cersei faked concern, but Sansa could see, in the glimmer of her eyes, how delighted she was thinking that Sansa had been made to run in the hot sun, with a dog barking orders at her. She ducked her head, pretending she’d been broken. “Go get cleaned up then, little dove. Don’t destroy her Clegane.”

 

“My methods, my rules.” The words clearly stunned the queen, who wasn’t use to being questioned. “Joffrey can tell me to stop.”

 

“I’m sure he’d approve.” Cersei was trying to get back on her pedestal, smiling benevolently at them. “Go get cleaned up.”

 

“Alright.” Sansa whispered, pretending to be ashamed and hurt. The second both she and Clegane were out of sight, she straightened up and looked at him, a little surprised he had lied for her, and why? He was avoiding her eyes, so as they went to climb the stairs to her room, she took them two at a time until she was ahead of him and turned, placing a hand on his chest.

 

“Clegane.” She looked down at him.

 

“What?” He looked vaguely annoyed that their progress was being impeded.

 

“Thank you.” She said quietly, mindful to watch and make sure no one else came. “For lunch, and for today, and for that back there.”

 

“It’s nothing.” He brushed past her. “You’ll run more now.”

 

“Ok.” A little surprised, but very delighted at how their day had progressed to arrive here, Sansa followed him to her bedroom. He sat down in his customary chair and Sansa went to the bathroom, eager to be out of her sweaty clothes. The shower felt good, and she took the time to condition her hair deeply, until it was as smooth as a rippling bolt of bronzed silk. When she got out, she smiled sadly at the blurry reflection in the mirror.

 

She’d always loved water as a girl. Her mother had laughed, calling her a little fish, but Sansa had always felt comfortable in the water. She had a sudden, painful longing to swim in the pond behind their house, where the boys had fished and she and Arya had pretended to compose water dances in the hot days of summer. Well, she’d danced, and Arya had pretended to be fighting.

 

She wrapped a towel around herself, looking around before noticing her mistake. She sometimes brought clothes into the bathroom to change into, so that she didn’t have to parade past Clegane in nothing but her towel too often. But this time, in her rush to get washed off, she’d forgotten. She dried herself as much as she could, before securing the towel again.

 

“Oh.” He looked up in surprise as she walked out on creeping feet. She spared him a quick, bright smile, opening the drawers with one hand so the other could keep the towel firmly up. He didn’t say anything else, but as she went to find the least skimpy dress she had clean and a new set of undergarments, she chanced a look at him through the curtain of her wet hair.

 

He still looked a little thunderstruck, the burner phone he’d been typing on now handing forgotten in his left hand. After a moment, he seemed to remember where he was and averted his eyes, bringing the phone back up and determinedly staring at it. Sansa closed the bathroom door and wondered again if seducing him might be the best course of action.

 

She cleared the condensation off the mirror, looking at herself critically. She knew she was pretty, because back home, the boys would always comment on it. Her brothers, and especially Arya, always knocked her down a peg or too if she was getting too confident, but it didn’t stop her from knowing that she was attractive in the conventional sense.

 

She didn’t envision good looks working on Clegane like they did back home, where she could get a free oil change if she smiled and flirted a little. Besides, it was too risky. Right now, he hovered in a gray area. He was consistent in his answers and routine, yes, but she didn’t know yet how to predict how he’d react to other things. He was kind to her, and he was more concerned for her wellbeing here than anyone else was. But would he accept her flirtations, or a request to take her away when it was timely? She couldn’t risk him.

 

She got dressed, resolving to play for time. If she could strengthen whatever sort of strange friendship they had, she might be able to figure out how he’d react to her escape. Besides, so far, he’d kept her from the worse of it, and if he continued that, she might be able to wait this out until Robb came for her. Mind still ticking with plans, she walked back out, dressed.

 

“Sorry, I forgot clothes.” She apologized and he just grunted, putting the phone away. She looked around the mostly empty room before turning back to him. “Well, what do we do now?”

 

“No desire to go into the lion’s den?” His eyes were a cool grey, observing her. She shook her head, and she didn’t need any other words. He knew, from how she held herself. She wouldn’t go down there until called. He pointed to where she’d hidden her magazines and she sighed.

 

“They’ll turn my brain to mush.” She muttered and he made a noise, affronted. “But thank you for bringing them!” She added hastily. He snorted and grumbled something she didn’t catch, so she retrieved them and sat. She even offered him one, but when he made a noise in his throat that might’ve been a chuckle, she took it back. Instead, he pulled out a pack of cards. Sansa watched as he shuffled them, then began laying them out deftly in some game she didn’t know.

 

“What?” He grumbled, after she watched a couple turns, fascinated and trying to figure out what the objective was. “Know how to play?”

 

“No.” Sansa said, magazines long forgotten. “Is the ace high or low?”

 

He contemplated her for a long moment before muttering, “Low.”

 

“Oh.” Sansa frowned. She’d been thinking it was high, but if it was low, why did the jack…

 

“What do you know?” He asked her suddenly and she forgot her musings.

 

“Poker, gin, pass the ace, go fish, all that stuff.” She said quickly. “My mom is kind of a card shark. We got banned from playing on family vacations, because her and dad—“ She abruptly broke off, remembering the very reason she was here. Never again would she see her father and mother, sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, each holding a hand of cards, yelling while their children dissolved into laughter around them. She worked to swallow the sudden lump in her throat, and stem the tears that rose up. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t cry, not here. She’d never give them the satisfaction.

 

“Alright,” His voice was surprisingly tender as he gathered up the cards and started shuffling them again. “You know how to play shithead?”

 

“No.” Sansa watched him closely, as he dragged the bedside table between them so that he could start to deal the cards.

 

“This is how it goes.” He laid three cards face down, then three face up, before dealing her three that she took up. “First, you’re going to…”

 

Sansa caught on fast after he explained it a few times, and she proudly informed him that she had inherited not just her mother’s looks but her affinity for cards as well. She lost the first couple rounds soundly while she worked to figure out how to play it, but she was making a strong comeback when the door opened and in swaggered Bronn, one of the bikers.

 

“What’s going on here?” He asked, with a drawl. “Cards? I hope you’re fleecing him, Ms. Sansa, because the man is a dirty cheat.”

 

“I’m not good enough for that yet.” Sansa actually liked Bronn, for what it was worth. He’d been kind to her, when she’d been at the porn studio, and she’d been cleaning toilets. He’d noticed her scrubbing without gloves, frowned, went and found some, and brought them to her. And he’d taken the bottle from Joffrey when he kept trying to pour shots and give toasts in honor of killing Sansa’s father.

 

“Well keep practicing, and if you win any money back, return it straight to me.” Bronn gave her a roguish wink and her mouth twitched into the slightest of a smile before he turned to Clegane.

 

“What?” The larger man grunted, still looking at the cards.

 

“Pres wants you.” He stated and Clegane snorted.

 

“Not my pres.”

 

“Your boss then.” Bronn said flatly. “I can watch the little lady, he just walked in and started hollering. Don’t keep him waiting.”

 

“Fine.” Clegane stood abruptly and left, storming out. Bronn, ever at ease, sat down and picked up the cards he’d left behind. Sansa, slightly tense, wondered what would happen next, but he simply whistled and tried to peek at her cards. Instinctively she shied away and he chuckled.

 

“Hope the man was letting you win, or I’m a worse card player than I thought I was.” He remarked and relaxing slightly, Sansa resumed their game with Bronn.

 

After she won in shithead, which he declared a farce since he had to pick up where Clegane had left off, he taught her a new game that involved drawing cards and avoiding slaps on the hand. She actually enjoyed it, considering that she was usually quicker than Bronn, and she was even laughing at his frustration when Clegane walked back in, face stormy.

 

“Out.” He ordered Bronn, who paused, a fraction of a second away from smacking Sansa’s hand as she tried to draw another card.

 

“We’re playing—“

 

“Out.” His tone was more forceful now and Bronn pretended to be affronted, but he winked at Sansa as he left and she wondered if maybe he’d play cards with her again. She did like him, against all odds. Once the door was shut behind him, Clegane glared at her, looking furious for reasons she couldn’t comprehend. “He wants to fuck you, you know.”

 

“I know.” She said shortly, trying to figure out if he looked extra angry, or if it was the same amount of anger as always. He snorted as he gathered up the cards.

 

“And Littlefinger, and the Toad, and Boros the Ugly, they all—“

 

“I know that they want to fuck me.” She cut him off and he looked up at her. “I’m not an idiot, and I was raised in the club. I know how this shit goes. Why hasn’t Joffrey ordered them to rape me yet?” Her voice grew stronger when her rage and fear did as well. “Is that what he talked to you about? Asked you to help decide which man it was going to be then, who gets the honors of raping Sansa Stark first?”

 

“Yes.” He said flatly and his answer so stunned her she had no choice but to reel back. Before she could scream or cry in horror, she wasn’t sure which would come first, he added, “And no one is going to fucking touch you, know that.”

 

“You can’t know that.” She managed to unstick her voice with the terror she’d been feeling. “Joffrey wants to break me, so does Cersei, and they’ll—“

 

“No one will fucking touch you.” He was shuffling the cards repeatedly, like he needed to keep his hands busy. “Promise.”

 

“Joffrey will rape me.” She tried to get him to understand. A big man, strong and deformed, how could he possibly know about the helplessness when someone claimed your body for their own and there was nothing to be done? “He will rape me and hurt me, because he’s depraved and twisted and I will—“

 

“Are you even fucking listening?” He glared at her and she was struck breathless at the rage behind his eyes. “He won’t.”

 

“Because why?” She was nearly hysterical now, all her fear making her feel like a child of sorts. She couldn’t even comprehend, rationally, what was going to happen. It felt too big, out of her control from it all. This couldn’t happen to her, not her. She wanted to pound her fists and kick her feet and yell about how the world wasn’t fair, it just wasn’t fair, but—

 

“Girl!” He grabbed her shoulders and shook. The sharp pain of her neck as it jerked made her come to her senses. She stared at him, scars and all, with that terrible expression of rage contorting his face, and it was a sort of comfort now.

 

“He will. Someone will.” She was breathless.

 

“No, he won’t. Not Joffrey or any of the others.”

 

“You can’t know that.” Sansa’s fingers went to where her ring had once sat, but it was gone now. She remembered, too late, that Clegane had it.

 

“I spoke to him.” He told her flattly and she couldn’t comprehend his words, because they didn’t make any sense whatsoever.

 

“And made him what, promise not to rape me?” She swallowed her horror.

 

“Yes.” His reply was simple and for a second Sansa could do nothing but stare at him in bewilderment, because none of it made any sense at at all. She couldn’t figure any of it out. He couldn’t be serious, he couldn’t have talked Joffrey, evil, insane, cruel Joffrey into ever possibly agreeing to something like this, it was madness, it was impossible, it was—

 

“How?”

 

“I suggested to him that doing such an act, or allowing such an act by his men, would be better if he could force your family to watch.” His gaze was steady on hers, even as he explained depraved things to her. “You mentioned a Robb and a Jon, right?”

 

“You—“ Sansa couldn’t get any other words out, as her horror and disgust made her feel like vomiting. “You— He’ll— They’ll—“

 

“Sansa!” He said firmly, and she was trying to scramble away from him, unable to comprehend what he’d done. Convinced Joffrey to rape her, in front of her brothers. In front of Robb, brave, strong Robb, and Jon, sweet, smart Jon. Her protective big brothers would be broken. Would they do the same to Arya? Would they kill Bran and Rickon and her mother?

 

“You-- You--”

 

"Sansa, listen--"

 

Gasping for air, she curled in the corner, trying to get away from him, trying to calm herself back down to think logically. The revulsion, as she imagined herself being stripped naked in front of the brothers who’d loved her since she was a girl. Her heart felt like it was being shredded into pieces, ripped apart. Joffrey would do awful things in front of them, he’d even—

 

Suddenly, her breathing stopped and the tears that were clouded her vision ended. She looked up at Clegane in flat amazement, because the genius of his plan had clicked. If Joffrey intended to follow through on the idea Clegane had planted, it meant that he would have to capture her brothers and bring them here. She knew the likelihood of that. Even if it ever came to that, she’d have plenty of time to devise a plan first.

 

She stared at him, where he stood, across the bed from her. One hand reached out for her, as though he was offering his hand to her, but he didn’t take a single step closer. She understood it all. He was giving her time, precious, valuable time that would allow her to plan while Joffrey went off on a suicide mission trying to kill her brothers. For a moment, as long as Joffrey went along with the plan, she was safe from the threat. Only one thing didn’t make sense and she she raised her head to look at him in astonishment.

 

“Why?”

 

“I get paid each week I keep you safe.” She saw no lie on his face.

 

“Oh.” So he was playing for time too then, same as she was. The longer she stayed alive, she longer he was paid. Maybe he even remembered what she said, that Robb would pay him. If she knew hired guns as well as she thought she did, he was waiting to see how he could make the most of this situation. Guarding her gave him money, and if Joffrey won this war, he could take his lump sum and leave. If Robb won, he’d collect a reward for his duties and leave.

 

Either way, he didn’t have to be loyal to either side, and he ended up with the money. She didn’t know how to feel about it, him using her as a meal ticket, but she found she didn’t really care. He was the one thing keeping her safe from all else, and though if the winds changed she was certain he’d leave her, she had to settle for what she had. For now.

 

“Well?” For some reason, his tone sounded a little bashful. He’d been watching her carefully, as she’d figured this out, her emotions going from terror to understanding after a few moments. She nodded, dazed, to let him know that she understood without so many words. Then she stood, brushed off the dress and walked, on trembling legs, back to where he was waiting.

 

The pair of them sat back down and though she was still quivering, he chose not to comment and instead dealt them both another hand for shithead, quietly. She picked up the cards, her hands still trembling, and tried to think of nothing but the cards she held before her. They were midway through the game when she muttered, nearly incomprehensible,

 

“Thank you.”

 

All she received in turn was a grunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are love and blessings - I love sharing this fic with everyone, so to hear such kind words and feedback is nothing short of amazing. If there's something you liked about this chapter, feed my ego monster and let me know! Thank you for reading!


	5. ocean eyes, billie ellish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all I can say is thank you for all reading, reviewing, sharing, etc. It means the world! 
> 
> Just as an aside, there is a playlist that has all these songs and more - if you're interested, drop me a review and I'll share it with you! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

He was an actual fucking idiot, he thought. A complete fucking idiot, and there was no way around that conclusion, not really. And for what? Why was he here, in the store, looking down at a pack of cheap pens and a notebook? Why didn’t he just come to get the shit he always did, smokes, condoms, the odd toothpaste or razor? Why did they end up in the bags he carried out?

 

He hated himself so much he actually growled, startling the boy pushing carts back inside. It was the stupidest thing, but with Sansa at the porn studio cleaning, and thus not needing his watchful gaze, he’d taken advantage of his few hours off to grab things he needed. Which had turned into things she needed, or wanted. She didn’t need the drawing tools, but he knew she was bored.

 

And he knew that because he spent every moment with her, or nearly. Occasionally he’d alternate nights with Bronn, who he at least half trusted her with, and got sleep in an actual bed. But mostly he slept in the chair in her room. And in the mornings, when she was at the mercy of the women, he’d work out and listen for her soft voice in the clubhouse.

 

If she wasn’t sent to the porn studio to do degrading housework, he’d occasionally get an afternoon of her to himself. He never really varied what they did, instead heading to his makeshift range so he could shoot. Those days, she’d kick off her shoes and run. He never lost sight of her flaming red hair, not really, but something in him lurched when she returned, sweaty and gasping, wearing those tight shorts and tank tops. Once she’d shed her top in the heat, so that the flimsy sports bra was all she had, and he’d nearly shot his foot off.

 

Fucking idiot.

 

That was the problem. He could lie to himself and say that it was nothing. She was nothing but a smart investment and they both knew it. He was impressed she’d figured out his plan, and with ease. No matter how this played out, he still got paid. The only difference was in Sansa’s fate, and if she’d be rescued or forced to watch more family members die.

 

He told himself he didn’t care, as he headed towards the porn studio to retrieve her. When it came to that, if it came to that, he’d leave her either in the safe clutches of her brothers with a payout, or with Joffrey, and get his agreed sum. He’d go to that island, have a few shots, find a new woman with not red hair, and Sansa Stark would never occur to him, ever again.

 

Except she already did, and frequently. He could hardly go an hour without thinking of her. She accompanied him, or the other way around, so often, that it felt strange not to have her peering over her shoulder on his bike, or have her nails dig into his forearm when he went just a little too fast. She kept her nails long, he noted, as if they were one weapon even Joffrey couldn’t take from her.

 

Not that he hadn’t already taken a lot. He hated that most nights Joffrey made Sansa sit on his lap, laughing and smacking her ass. He’d talk about her father’s death, and his upcoming plans to kill the rest of her family. Sansa endured it with hard eyes, and only he knew that later in her room she would pound a pillow silently, but no tears ever spilled.

 

She was doing alright, all things considered. She ate now, though it was still pecking compared to what he’d expect, and it was never enough to satisfy him. He’d noticed, the day that she had her shirt off, that she was perhaps a little too thin, and he’d drug her back to the diner so that she would eat something fattening. And she still smiled, though it always left when she was forced to spend the afternoon with Cersei or an evening with Joffrey. His idea, meant to inspire Joffrey’s cruelest nature, seemed to be working however.

 

He’d even grown to like their little moments together. She’d mastered the card games he taught her and then had taught him some in return, until they had a wide range of games to plan, and grudges for each one. She’d claim he cheated, he’d boast he had superior skill, and then they would play until she won and her pretty little face would light up.

 

And there he was again, thinking her pretty and about how she smiled. It was idiotic, and not in the least because while she was his meal ticket, he knew that she only thought of him as her protector and captor, depending on the moment. She would never smile at him just to smile at a scarred and burned man, but because she knew if she didn’t, he might release her to Joffrey. That was why she was by his side, and why she wanted him to take her places, and to guard her while she slept.

 

No one felt affection for him. He was the rabid guard dog, to everyone. And if he ever thought otherwise, he was a fucking idiot.

 

When he pulled up to the porn studio and walked inside, the first thing he noticed was that there were no Lion men here. Usually a few, mostly Littlefinger and some of the hornier bastards hung about and watched girls film. But today, there was no one. He looked about for Sansa and when he didn’t find her flaming hair, growled and grabbed one of the girls by the arm.

 

“Where is she?” He barked and the girl shrank back, likely terrified of the scars he possessed and the rage rolling off him.

 

“Sorry, who?”

 

“Sansa, Sansa Stark, the—“ He broke off, trying to figure out how the hell to describe her. “The girl who works here! Red, tall, thin, pale, pretty?”

 

“Who does laundry and cleans the bathroom?” Now the girl’s lip curled up into a sneer. “I don’t know, Littlefinger took her.”

 

“He what?” He demanded, shaking her and she gasped with pain, but he didn’t hear. All he knew was the man that so clearly coveted Sansa, judging from the looks he gave, had taken her.

 

“He took her!” The girl cried. “I don’t know, he just—“ He tried to breathe, reminding himself that the only thing this girl knew was that her boss had came to take some random girl away. She didn’t know what danger that was. She didn’t know to fear what Littlefinger would do to Sansa. He forced himself to let her go, and say, in a marginally more controlled tone,

 

“How long ago?”

 

“Like an hour maybe?” The girl rubbed her arm, which was red.

 

“Where did he go?”

 

“I don’t fucking know.” The girl looked close to tears and had hatred in her eyes, but he didn’t care. “He doesn’t tell us shit.”

 

“Sorry.” He muttered, looking pointedly at her arm and hoping she understood. Then he turned on his heel and raced for his bike. He drove through the streets faster than he ever had, squealing around corners loudly and praying that if there were any cops to be found, they were all in Joffrey’s pocket. None followed him, and when he parked and strode towards the clubhouse, his heart was pounding.

 

In he walked, and there Sansa stood, in the center of the clubhouse like she was the main damn attraction. Red hair flaming, down around her face like a shield. It was a circus, and everyone was present, from Jaime to Bronn to Littlefinger to Cersei and her girls. And every single one of them was watching Joffrey, standing in the center, laughing cruelly at Sansa.

 

Sansa. For a second he was frozen, staring in shock and horror at her. She stood beside Joffrey and though her eyes were rimmed red with humiliation, she did not cry. Not even when Toad slapped her again. And it had to be again, because her lip was already split, and so was her cheek. The worst, however was the fact that her dress was ripped, and hung down around her waist, showing a black bra to the world. She stood, ramrod straight, enduring it, and his gaze tinged red in a way it hadn’t in years.

 

“Again, Toad!” Joffrey was gleeful. “She’ll beg, like her brother, when—“

 

“Enough!” Clegane roared and the crowd parted in astonishment, turning to look at him. He didn’t care about what any of them thought; the only face that mattered was Sansa’s, and she was looking at him with those damned blue eyes full of what, hope?

 

“Dog!” Joffrey looked glad that he was there, smirking. “There you are.”

 

“What are you doing?” His growl was low and full of danger.

 

“The Wolves,” Joffrey spat the name viciously. “Managed to intercept one of our shipments of guns, didn’t they now dear Sansa?” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked, making Sansa whimper no matter how much she tried to hide it. Clegane’s fist clenched. “I was just reminding her who rules the south, and who’s going to rule the north one day too.”

 

“Enough.” He repeated, teeth gritted and Joffrey’s grasp loosened some, enough for Sansa to straighten up carefully. Joffrey let her go after a moment and Clegane took off his kutte, passing it to her so that she had something to cover herself with. She shrugged it on, avoiding his eyes. Joffrey looked like he was going to protest, before Jaime, of all people, stepped forward.

 

“We need to plan our retaliation.” He murmured quietly. “Not stand here beating a child.” His gaze flicked towards Toad.

 

“Alright.” Joffrey let Sansa go and she took a trembling step towards Clegane. “Get her out of my sight, dog. Remember my mercy before you show your face here again.” He threatened Sansa, before the club members headed into the chapel. Cersei looked like she was going to stop them, but Clegane drew Sansa under his massive arm and led her upstairs, the furious glare on his face enough to ensure that no one said a single word to either of them.

 

“I—“ Sansa started, once they cleared the stairs and were headed for her room.

 

“Shush, little bird.” It came out gruff, because that was his best attempt at tenderness, but Sansa seemed to understand. He brought her to her room, then stood outside. She deserved privacy now, at least for a little bit. He stood outside the door and when he heard the familiar thump of her fists hitting the pillow, he knew she would be alright.

 

Sometime later, he cautiously let himself in. She was sitting on the bed, dressed in those ridiculously garish pajamas she always had on, staring down at her hands. His kutte was sitting beside her neatly, and looped around her thin fingers was the delicate necklace and ring he kept safe on himself at all times. He stood over her, unsure what else to say.

 

“Do you know why we’re called the Wolves, why my club is named that?” She asked suddenly, tracing the little ridges of the wolf’s metal fur.

 

“No.” He admitted. It didn’t matter, he wasn’t one of them. But he let her talk. He suspected she needed it.

 

“Legend, or club myth, has that when it was founded, they had a tame wolf. Probably a load of shit, and I always assumed it was because wolves are fierce and strong and whatever else. Same as why all biker clubs are named after shit that they think will make them look intimidating. But do you want to know what the funniest thing is?” She looked up at him with blue eyes that shone.

 

“What?” He asked quietly, not approaching her.

 

“My dad was an animal lover. Never said no to any animal that turned up at our doorstep. And you know what turned up one day?” There was heartbreak on her face, a kind he wasn’t sure he understood.

 

“What?”

 

“Mid content wolf dogs. A litter of them, when some car had hit and killed the mother. Six of them. Oh, my mother was mad. She didn’t want six wolves in her house, not when she already had six children who were basically wild animals. But my father would not turn them down. So we each got one that was ours to take care of, and mom threatened at every turn to send them away if they didn’t behave.”

 

“Do you have one?” He asked, trying to imagine her with a wolf beside her. Sansa’s mouth twisted up into a sad smile.

 

“I do. Her name is Lady, because she was the smallest of the pack and the best behaved out of all of them. She would sit and stay and eat nicely and she never rolled in mud or dead things. She was polite and sweet and she listened. A perfect little lady, like me.” Sansa gave a bitter laugh. “More a dog than a wolf, that was for sure. Sometimes I dream she’s still here with me.”

 

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say, so he settled for words that were hollow and false, and he hated himself for it.

 

“Jon gave me this.” She held the necklace up, and the charms dangled. “And Robb gave me the ring. It’s a set, and when I turned 16, they each gave me one, since they were a set, you know?”

 

“You’re close then.” He muttered uncomfortably, thinking about his own family.

 

“Yes.” Sansa was holding so tightly to the necklace he wondered if she was wishing it would take her away. “I was closest with Robb when I was young— Jon was so quiet. We got closer when I was a little older and I realized that quiet didn’t mean boredom, it meant he was always deep in thought. My sister— Arya— we’re night and day. When we were young, it was like trying to force a chicken and a fox to be friends. She took after my father, all weapons and strategy. I just wanted pretty things, I suppose.”

 

“A bikers daughter with a taste for fine things?” He didn’t bother to hide his snort of amusement. He never would’ve guessed, not this girl who stood before him, who he’d only seen ever seen in stripper outfits or these pajamas, sweaty and dirty, without makeup or nail polish.

 

“That’s me.” Sansa had a wry smile. “Never thought I fit, I always wanted to go to LA and do something glamorous. Arya wanted to become a wolf. And my young brothers— Bran and Rickon— I mothered them more than I should’ve. But now I wonder every day how they are.” She sighed and brought her knees to her chest.

 

“How old?” He asked, because her face had some sort of happiness when she spoke on her family, and he wanted to keep it there after the awful things of today.

 

“Robb and Jon are 25.” She had such a fond smile on her face when she spoke of her big brothers, he felt an acute pain in his chest. What was that like, to have someone look over you? “Then me, 21, and Arya, 17. Bran is 14, and Rickon is 11. Wait, what day is it?” She asked suddenly.

 

“September 3rd.” He said and her shoulders slumped.

 

“Rickson is 12 then. I missed his birthday.” She said sadly. “I had his gift in my closet, I was going to give it to him, before he woke up and went to the woods.”

 

“Are you all close?” He hated how his voice sounded, like a bastard starved for love. And that’s what he was, wasn’t he? Some poor cunt, desperate for love and attention, desperate to get it any way that he could.

 

“I guess.” Sansa said thoughtfully, drawing her knees to her chest. “I mean, what did Robb want to do with a silly little girl who made him pretend to be a knight that would save her? And Jon, he was always off reading things, trying to travel and get as far away as he could. He’s nomad now, and—“ She broke off, looking away and he took a step closer, seeing her distress and wondering what to do.

 

“Is he…” He trailed off. Nothing Sansa had said before indicated that he had passed away, but then, he’d hardly paid close enough attention to notice she wasn’t eating until it was nearly too late.

 

“No.” Sansa said hastily. “But with him being nomad, I’m always so scared that Joffrey is going to find him and..” She didn’t need to say anything further. They both knew. “And before he went, we had a… Fight.”

 

“About?” He could hardly envision Sansa fighting with her own flesh and blood, not when she seemed so distraught over being seperated from them.

 

“Stupid things. I was a stupid little girl, and I was cruel.” She looked away, down at the necklace again. “I wanted him to stay, but I didn’t tell him that. I told him that Robb was a real leader, that he was our father’s real son, he deserved the club, and that Jon was a coward. He’s not, he’s the bravest man I know, but I was so hurt he would leave us, that I said awful things. And then I ended up here, and I might never get out, and all Jon has to remember me by is a terrible fight.”

 

“He won’t remember that.” He said quietly and Sansa glanced at him.

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Because you love each other.” The words were said with a bit of wonder, like he couldn’t understand what it would be like to have siblings that missed each other and fought tooth and nail to protect each other.

 

“You had siblings.” Sansa brought her knees to her chest and looked up with wide eyes. How old had she said she was, 21? God, that was practically still a child. He sat down in the chair, heavily, wondering how he could get out of this.

 

“Aye.”

 

“How many?” She probed gently and he supposed she needed to make conversation, to even the playing field after telling him all about her own family. At least, that's what he had to tell himself as he answered,

 

“Two.”

 

“Are you the oldest?” She gazed at him.

 

“Middle.” He grunted uncomfortably.

 

“Like me.” Sansa smiled slightly at that. “Arya always said she was the true middle child, since Robb and Jon were lumped together so often. She acts like one too, always acting out.” He didn’t say anything to that; after all, he had no idea how a normal family dynamic worked. “Did you have sisters or brothers?”

 

“Both.” His hand clenched on the armchair, but now it was like a test, to see how far he could go. Besides, she was no shrink, and she was in no place to judge him. He had all the power over her, and that knowledge strangely comforted him, making the words a little easier. “Brother older, sister younger.”

 

“Are they still back in Scotland?” Sansa clearly remembered the past tense he’d once used while talking about them, but he could tell the remark confused her, so he struggled to clarify without being overwhelmed.

 

“My… Brother… Isn’t.” Flashes were coming back to him now— the house on the moor, the dogs that sat beside the fire, the draft that came in through the doors, and then the white gravestone, the one that rose up, so stark against the landscape surrounding it and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the onslaught of memories. He didn’t open his eyes until he felt thin fingers close around his wrist.

 

“I’m sorry.” Sansa whispered when he opened eyes and found her kneeling in front of him. “I know how painful it is, talking about things when you’re not ready. I won’t push. We can talk about something else.”

 

“Aileana.” Her name sounds strange on his tongue, after all these years. “Her name was Aileana.”

 

“That’s a beautiful name.” Sansa smiled, fingers still clasped around him, likely able to feel just how quickly his heart beat.

 

“She was beautiful.” He feared that now he’d begun, he wouldn’t be able to stop. “The most beautiful girl.”

 

“Was she much younger than you?” Sansa gently squeezed his wrist and he closed his eyes again, because yes, yes she was, and that there had been the downfall of it all, hadn’t it?

 

“A child.” He whispered and he knew it didn’t make sense, but the words weren’t his anymore. He wasn’t the Hound anymore, or Clegane. He was just a little boy, back in a Scottish meadow. “She was a mere girl, a bonnie lass, not even ten. I’d… Left. Went to the city, thought I was tough. I left her there alone, of course I did, and what did he fucking do?”

 

“Who?” Sansa was bewildered, not in the least because she was seeing a depth of emotion in him that he’d never once showed.

 

“My brother!” He spat and she leaned back, just a fraction. It felt good to scare her, remind her who he was, that he got up and began to pace, leaving her surprised, where she was. “You think I’m a monster, girl, but I bet you’d cry at the sight of him. I’ve got nothing on his cruelness, and I’ve killed men with my bare hands, seen things that you couldn’t even dream up. And still, he’s fucking worse. Worse than Joffrey, worse than everyone in the clubhouse combined.”

 

“I don’t understand.” She was still trying to be polite and nice to him, and for some reason it made him all the more enraged.

 

“My brother, my brother Gregor, the Mountain, who rapes and murders, haven’t you ever heard of him? Or did your father protect you from all the things he did, all the people he knew? Did you even have a clue, or did he lock you away in an ivory tower with your wolves? Had you even met a killer before you ended up here?” His chest was heaving with the familiar rage that came up at the mention of his brother.

 

“My father was a killer.” Sansa said cooly. “My brothers are killers, and I imagine one day, if I live this life, my sons will be killers too. I know killers, I’ve looked them in the eyes.”

 

“Not like my brother.” He stopped in front of her and grabbed her chin, a little tightly, but he couldn’t help it. “You see this?” He pointed to his scars.

 

“Yes.” Sansa’s gaze raked over him and he waited for the normal revulsion. When she didn’t show any, instead looking back at him steadily, he growled and clenched tighter.

 

“He did this, my brother. Did it to me, without hesitation, without remorse. He burned my skin until I screamed and passed out. I was younger than your precious baby brother is now. Maybe 7, 8 at the oldest. And do you know what my father did?” He let her go and stalked away. He pretended not to notice the way she rubbed her jaw. “He said it was an accident, and sent my brother to military school, so that he could become someone else’s killer. And then he drank enough to forget that he had one son who ruined his other.”

 

“Your own brother did that to you?” Sansa sounded rightly horrified, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn and look at her.

 

“Aye, and then he killed my father. No, that was an accident, that’s what they say. Old hunting guns, you have to know how to handle them, you know? And then my poor mother went insane, and was sent off to the asylum, and do you know who was left at home with Gregor?” He turned to her with a snarl, knowing just how feral he looked with his scars.

 

“Aileana and you.” Sanas didn’t back down in the face of his rage, but stared at him evenly. “Will you tell me what happened?”

 

“Tell you what happened.” He gave a bark of wild, bitter laughter. “What happened, little bird, was that she was a little girl, just a child, and she had no idea how dangerous he was. I left her there, I wasn’t there to protect her, and when I came home—“ He broke off with a sob, because he could still picture the way he’d walked into the front door and found her body in the middle of the room, at the bottom of the stairs. He still remembered Gregor, atop those stairs, with a sick, twisted smile. He repeated the words Gregor had said, in that horrible moment, in a mocking tone. _“She fell.”_

 

He didn’t realize he was gasping for air until Sansa was sitting behind him, rubbing his back carefully. The tears had came out of nowhere. He hadn’t cried for his sister in years, not since he’d left Scotland with the intention of never coming back. Not since he visited that white gravestone in the middle of the meadow, for the first and the last time, and vowed that he would kill his brother one day.

 

It took a few minutes, but eventually he calmed down. Sansa was still rubbing his back, crooning softly in his ear. It took him a couple moments, but eventually he realized what exactly she was singing— an old Bob Dylan song, slightly off key.

 

"Remember me to one who lives there, she once was a true love of mine… If you go when the snowflakes storm, when the rivers freeze and summer ends… Please see if she's wearing a coat so warm, to keep her from the howlin’ winds…”

 

Her voice was pretty, when it was soft and in his ear. He liked her crooning, and he relaxed slightly, as she kept singing. Her hands drifted a little higher, until she brushed his hair off his neck. She smelled like the overly sweet, cloying shampoo Cersei forced her to use, and he had a sudden, jolting urge to smell her, the true her, not who the Lannisters dressed her up to be.

 

He laid down, as exhausted as though he’d been running a marathon, and the day washed over him. The lack of sleep he’d been getting since Sansa’s arrival began to catch up with him and the combination of finally being on a horizontal surface, as well as Sansa’s quiet singing, lulled him quickly into a sleep he wasn’t even aware was overtaking him.

 

 _“She once was a true love of mine…”_ The lyrics followed him into his slumber, and soon it was black.

 

When he woke, a few things surprised him. One, he was in a bed, which was rare for most days. That, and he didn’t have a pounding hangover. A small blanket was draped over his shoulders in a feeble attempt to give him a blanket, and his boots were dropped neatly beside the bed frame. His knife and gun were within easy reach on the bedside table. He frowned, blinking a couple times, before rolling over and going cold.

 

There, beneath a blanket of her own that fit her frame much better than his did, was Sansa Stark, fast asleep, with an adorable bit of drool at the corner of her mouth and very messy hair. He stared at her in abject horror as it all began to come rushing back. Joffrey beating her, stripping her naked, and her tears afterwards. They’d talked about her family, and then about—

 

Jesus fuck, she’d seen him cry. Cry over Aileana, rage over Gregor, he’d told her it all. His whole fucking history, from start to finish with all the shit in between. And then he’d fallen asleep in her bed, and left himself utterly defenseless against her. This was stupider than giving her a gun— he’d let his guard down, and she would’ve had every chance to slit his throat.

 

Except she hadn’t. His eyes darted to where his weapons laid, set out as if he himself had done it. And she’d removed his shoes, clearly. His kutte was set on the back of the chair, like it was waiting for him to sling it on. With Sansa slumbering next to him, he realized it looked like a bizarre farce of domestic bliss. Except she was a prisoner in a madhouse under Joffrey, he was her fucking guard, and everything was somehow upside down after the night before.

 

The blankets next to him rustled and with mounting terror, he realized she was waking up. He attempted to get out of bed without making it obvious, but her eyes snapped open and found him at once. If he hadn’t been so on edge to start with, he might’ve marveled at how she went from asleep to awake with no problem. After a long pause she asked,

 

“Sleep well?”

 

“What?’ He nearly dropped the gun he was attempting to secure on his belt.

 

“You’ve been sleeping in a chair since I got here, which was what, like three weeks ago? You were exhausted.” She sat up, piling her hair onto the top of her head in a messy bun. “And then I made you talk about your family. You were done. So I let you sleep. Sorry it was in jeans, but I think if anyone had broke in and saw you in boxers, they would’ve lost it.”

 

“What—“ He stared at her as she got up and walked into the bathroom, grabbing her toothbrush.

 

“To which part?” She asked, raising her voice slightly as she turned the faucet on wet the brush.

 

“I stayed— here— you— we— what—“ He tried, unsuccessfully, to voice his confusion, before Sansa emerged, brushing her teeth. She leaned against the doorframe and raised an eyebrow. Sensing that he wasn’t about to get anything else out of her, he ran his hand over his hair, noticing that it had brushed away from his scars while he slept, and put them more on display than they’d ever been. He glanced at her, wondering what she made of such a sight now that she knew the truth.

 

She was simply brushing her teeth, gazing steadily at him. All of him, he noticed. He was accustomed to people staring at one half of his face or the other. Either they were sickly fascinated by the burns, or repulsed so much they avoided it all together. But Sansa gazed into both his eyes with ease, and once she’d completed her task, she went to rinse and spit, leaving him.

 

“You like Bob Dylan?” She asked calmly, when she walked back out and he remembered her voice the night before, singing quietly. With a painful beat of his heart, he remembered that Aileana had loved to sing.

 

“He’s fine.” He said shortly and Sansa’s mouth twisted up.

 

“Yeah, I prefer Lion’s version anyways.” She remarked and the look he gave her was twofold. She understood, because she laughed. “Ironic, right? But I like the rock version better. I’m guessing you’ve never heard it. You’d like it.”

 

“Do I like rock?” He deadpanned and Sansa seemed happy that they were teasing each other.

 

“More than you like Bob Dylan I bet. You should listen to it sometime. It’s good.”

 

“Is it?” He grunted and Sansa nodded, sitting down on the bed beside him, just a bit too close. “The little bird sings rock then?”

 

“She sings lots of things.” Sansa was staring at her reflection in the mirror and he pointedly avoided looking, because who would want to see such ugliness sitting beside such beauty? “Everything except rap. I could never get into that honestly.” He snorted, imagining that it set off her oh-so-delicate sensibilities. She gave him a stern look and he muttered,

 

“How is it any different than rock?”

 

“It’s way different.” Sansa jutted her chin out. “It’s different. There’s no meaning, no feeling. Besides, I was never as into rock as Robb, or Jon.”

 

“Liked your pop songs?” He couldn’t help but mock and Sansa huffed, rolling her eyes.

 

“And if I did? You sound as bad as Arya. She mocked me too, because I liked things by artists who weren’t named ridiculous shit like ‘red painted pot’ or ‘fuzzy peach pit’.”

 

“Those aren’t real bands.” He grew serious, frowning at her. Surely he wasn’t that old, that removed from pop culture times. Sansa laughed, and it was the prettiest thing, in the dawn of a new day.

 

“They could be.” She gave a shrug. “Arya was into the indie scene, and all that hipster nonsense. She was always talking about how I needed to listen to stuff with meaning, but I don’t know, I liked to dance.”

 

“Liked to dance.” He repeated faintly, because he had a vision of Sansa at a nightclub, dancing atop a table in a short, shimmering dress, and he was terrified at how, while the idea enthralled him, it made a possessive bubble burst in his stomach.

 

“Yeah.” Sansa was oblivious to his tone. “But sometimes she knew what she was doing, I’ll give her that much. She was always trying to go to these concerts. She’d talk Jon into going, and they’d both get into so much trouble when they got home.” She smiled sadly before shaking her head. “Let’s talk about happy things. I don’t want to think about yesterday, and I’m sorry I made you bring it up. What should we do today?”

 

“Oh.” Between the distraction of Joffrey and then their further revelations, he’d completely forgotten what had kicked off the disaster of a day anyways. He got up, thrown a little off balance by her sunshine and rainbows tone, and went to the bag he’d thrown in the corner earlier. He drew out the notebook and pens, turning and offering them to her hesitantly.

 

“Oh, wow.” Sansa’s jaw dropped and she took them from him, staring at them agape. “I—“

 

“They were cheap.” He said it because he was fumbling for anything else, and in the light of the day, he realized, with a lot of self loathing, that a girl like her probably drew with fine, pointed ink pens, on smooth, unlined sketchbook paper, not with shitty school notebook paper and pens that cost pennies. She would be disgusted, disappointed, absolutely—

 

He didn’t expect her to stand on the bed and launch herself at him. He had to catch her in his arms before they both toppled over and he took a step back from the impact, holding her close to him. For a second, he was certain the world really had gone upside down, because why on earth would she do something like this?

 

“They’re perfect, thank you.” Sansa squealed and he set her down, dazed. “I was just wishing for something to draw and write in. This will be perfect.” She sat down, beaming. “In middle school, I filled like twenty notebooks like this with my stupid doodles.”

 

“Ah.” He didn’t know what else to say, so he instead turned and pulled his kutte on, pulling out the pack of cards. Everyone was likely still asleep, and besides, hadn’t Joffrey basically exiled her the night before? Maybe they could just stay in her bedroom today, and nothing would happen.

 

He was just shuffling the cards when he realized the familiar bulge of the necklace and ring sat in its normal pocket, pressing a spot just above his heart. He snuck a glance at her. She was beaming, tendrils of her wild flame hair escaping her bun as she drew, rather frantically. She looked up and spotting his snooping. She grinned and pretended to shyly hide it away.

 

“You can see it when it’s finished!”

 

“Alright.” Mouth dry, he kept shuffling until his hands could handle being still.

 

* * *

 

Chapel - room where club members meet. Meetings are called 'church'

Nomads - men who ride their bikes from club to club and while they are part of the overall gang, they don't have a home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews feed the machine friends - seriously, even if it's just your favorite moment or line, or twenty exclamation points - it's interacting with this amazing fandom that makes all this shit worth it.


	6. Dogs, Damien Rice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello welcome to my love ode to my dogs, this chapter got way more out of hand than I meant it to but also please sign the petition to allow me to get a husky, no matter what my boyfriend says. 
> 
> Also for anyone who believes in astrology, please join me in the comments to discuss why Sansa is clearly a Pisces and Sandor is so a Capricorn. 
> 
> Ok have fun friends!

Joffrey didn’t let her out of the imposed exile for the whole weekend, and early into next week, but Sansa didn’t care in the slightest. Her lip healed nicely, and though her cheek was bruised, she didn’t mind it, much. It wasn’t as bad as the time she’d broken her wrist trying to get Arya out of a tree and had fell herself. She was left alone, and she cherished it.

 

She didn’t mind because she had a notebook, and several pens, and she could draw again. It was a relief, just to have something to do that wasn’t reading about a half baked lie about what new celebrity was pregnant with her brother-in-law’s baby. She loved to draw, and if she could lose herself for hours at a time in her notebook, she could almost forget where she was.

 

Ever since Clegane had told her what day it was, she was careful to mark the days on the inside cover of the notebook. Robb and Jon’s birthday was coming up, her boys of fall, and she didn’t want to miss it. She’d have to buy gifts later, when she got away to make up for it, but it was enough to know what day it was, even if the days never got cooler here.

 

In the meantime, she sketched. She sketched like mad, because she was desperate to remember, and remember correctly. She sketched everything from how she remembered Bran’s library to Lady’s sweet face, wishing she could add color to those soulful eyes. Then she sketched Lady with Ghost and Summer, before she drew the entire pack of wolves.

 

Lady sat delicately in the middle, a pretty, perfect lady. Grey Wind and Ghost lay off to the side, relaxed, but they had their eyes on the rest of the pack. Summer and Shaggydog played in the background, wrestling and fighting over a toy like Bran and Rickon would do when they were younger. But she placed Nymeria with her front paws on a rock, looking off the paper, as though longing to run. She thought it fitting, since Arya’s wolf was almost as wild as her little sister.

 

“Alright, you can have a  look now.” She declared happily, once she’d added her final strokes to Grey Wind’s fur one afternoon, and Clegane looked up with raised eyebrows. She had refused to show him any of her sketches since he’d gifted her with the notebook, even going so far as to sit on it or hide it when they’d played cards so he couldn’t get a peek.

 

“Aye?” He glanced up from where he’d been cleaning a gun. She was slightly fascinated by the seemingly never ending parade of weapons he had, but then she remembered that was his job. She’d tried to keep track at the start, how many guns he had, and had given up early. She nodded happily, and tossed him the notebook. He caught it and looked down at the page with the wolves.

 

“Well?” She asked, a little shyly, when he didn’t say anything. He was staring down at it, brow furrowed, lips slightly parted, and she didn’t know what to make of the expression on his face. Then he set it between them and pointed to Lady, hovering his finger above the paper.

 

“That one’s yours.”

 

“Yeah,” She beamed, delighted that he’d understood. “Lady.”

 

“And these are your little brothers.” He pointed to where she’d tried to give the playful pups a sense of motion. Her brothers were never still, and neither were their companions.

 

“Yes, Bran and Rickon. The darker one is Shaggydog, he belongs to Rickon, and Bran has Summer.” It made her smile to think about her siblings and pets, but at the same time she knew she’d fall asleep tonight and dream that Lady was sleeping at her feet.

 

“This is your brother, Jon.” He hovered over Nymeria and she shook her head.

 

“No, but now that you say it, I should’ve drawn him that way.” She frowned, realizing that he was right, it didn’t make sense to have Ghost and Grey Wind together, not when Jon had separated from them and went nomad. “That’s my sister, but as Nymeria.”

 

“Arya.” He recalled and she nodded.

 

“She’s always trying to run off into some grand adventure. She can hardly wait to turn eighteen and be gone.” She reached forward and moved his finger so it was over the two reclining wolves. “This is Grey Wind, he belongs to Robb. Ghost belongs to Jon, and he’s white as snow. I guess I should’ve drawn Ghost leaving but I… Wanted to remember things the way they were.”

 

“Understandable.” He grunted and she let his hand go, trailing her fingers over Lady’s form.

 

“They’re twins, but they’re nothing alike.” She found herself telling him. “Jon and Robb. They don’t even look alike, really.”

 

“Oh?” He looked up at her, and Sansa thought of her brothers, all four of them, different and similar in their own little ways.

 

“No. Robb looks more like my mother. He’s got hair like mine, but darker. Blue eyes though. The girls always threw themselves all over him.” Sansa smiled faintly when Clegane snorted.

 

“You’ll have a new fucking queen then.” He remarked and Sansa stopped, startled. Her mother had been the queen for so long, she’d never stopped to think about Robb falling in love and a new woman becoming queen. It was strange to think of.

 

“I guess.” She said quietly. “Robb isn’t one to settle down with just anyone though. He’s too serious. That’s how him and Jon are alike. So serious.”

 

“You’re the black sheep there then.” Clegane said dryly and Sansa gave a little laugh.

 

“No, that’s Jon. He and Arya are more like my dad than either of them cares to admit to, but Jon was always a bit more otherworldly.” She brought her knees up to her chest thoughtfully. “I guess we could all be the black sheep, really. We’re all so different.”

 

“Well, with fucking twelve of you…” He teased and she stuck her tongue out at him.

 

“Six, you jerk. It’s not that many.” She rested her chin on her knees. “The twins, me, Arya, then Bran and Rickon, the baby.”

 

“Couldn’t keep them straight.” Clegane stated. "Too many birthdays."

 

“Easy. Rickon is September, Bran is February, Arya is June, I’m March, and Robb and Jon are in October.” She rattled off and he gave a shrug.

 

“Add your wolves to that, and I’m fucking lost.”

 

“They were born in the fall too.” She said a little sadly, looking at her drawing. “I always got Lady a treat for her birthday. They’ll be four.”

 

“You love her.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, and when she looked at him, she saw something like a gleam of understanding there. She tilted her head, having discovered another side to him.

 

“Very much. She’s my soulmate, in a way. You know how close you can be to a dog.” She saw the way he’d looked at the drawings. Now the way he talked about them. Like he’d missed the bond between dog and owner, the purest thing there was.

 

“Aye.” He said quietly and she didn’t push. She never wanted to push again, not after she saw him break down over his family, with the terrible rage and grief he’d shown her. For a second, she’d forgotten all about the fact that he was the enemy, the one keeping her here, and she had wanted to comfort him like she’d been comforted after the death of her father.

 

“Did you have dogs?” She asked it carefully, in the calmest and most relaxed of voices, as to not startle him. She found he picked up on her cues and if she was grouchy or upset, she’d fast see it reflected in him. The best way to encourage him to open up was to share some of her first.

 

“Aye.” He pulled out the deck of cards and Sansa wondered if he always had to have his hands busy. He shuffled, then begun laying them out.

 

“In Scotland, or after?” She quietly took up her cards, schooling her features. He claimed she had a tell, and she was determined to repress it.

 

“Both.” He grunted, finishing arranging the cards and stacking the extras off to the side so they could both draw easily from it. “I’m not called the hound for no reason, girl.”

 

“I thought you just had a really good sense of smell.” She said calmly, laying the first card and he snorted, but followed suit. They played in silence for awhile, because she knew when he got uncomfortable with the silence, he’d speak. And then he did.

 

“We raised them, in Scotland. Or we did.” His face was stormy, those grey eyes cloudy. “Not after… But I’ve had a couple, since.”

 

“Do you have a favorite breed?” Sansa drew an extra card from the pile and when he didn’t seem to hear her, added, “I love that Lady is so wolfish, but sometimes I wish she was a little smaller. I’d get a little teacup puppy, that could fit in my hand—” His snort of amusement cut her off and she gave him a dirty look.

 

“Of course you would.” He scoffed and she frowned deeply at him.

 

“What, just because I am a girl means it’s typical of me to want a little dog?”

 

“Delicate things like delicate things.” He remarked and her mouth snapped shut. She never knew what to do with these compliments that weren’t compliments, but oddly couldn’t be called anything else.

 

“Well, forgive me, since Lady nearly weighs as much as I do, and she can topple me with one jump.” She enjoyed being sassy with him. It reminded her of being home with her brothers, and she knew he liked it too. Both corners of his mouth twitched up when she was being mouthy.

 

“Ever seen a Scotch Collie?” He remarked, after a long pause where she chewed her lip and tried to figure out how to best play her cards.

 

“No.” She looked up at him. “Like a border collie?”

 

“Prettier.” He flicked at his cards. “Not many people breed them, see. Farmers, mostly. Great herding dogs. Loyal too. Thick fur, lots of coloring. Some of the smartest damn dogs you’ll ever meet.”

 

“I doubt it.” She informed him and he looked at her with a frown.

 

“Meaning?”

 

“If you show me a dog smarter than Lady, I’ll buy you a new pair of boots.” She teased and he raised an eyebrow. She wondered if he was going to make a comment then, about how she was nothing but a trapped girl then, with no money or ability to buy anything at all. Instead he chuckled and drew a card.

 

“Bet I could.” He informed her, while inspecting her cards.

 

“You couldn’t. Lady’s special.” Sansa declared.

 

“Aye, and does she have the softest fur?” He asked her and Sansa paused to remember how it felt to wind her fingers in the thick fur and to rest her head on Lady’s warm side.

 

“Yes.” She waited out the wave of pain. “She’d let me brush her for ages in the spring and when I was done, she’d ripple like silk.”

 

“Scotch collie’s are like that too.” He actually almost grinned when she had to draw another card, scowling darkly. “Like a blanket. Their fur is long, so you have to shave it down a little in the summers, keep them from getting too hot.”

 

“Lady— and the rest— always shed something terrible in the spring.” Sansa laughed at the memory. “They weren’t allowed in the house, of course, but we were always sneaking them in. Mom swept and vacuumed until she was blue in the face, and she kept finding more hair.”

 

“Enough to create a whole new dog?” His eyes were almost pretty, when they had an amused sparkle in them. Sansa nodded, recalling the time she’d walked in on Bran and Rickon pulling wads of hair off Summer and Shaggydog in the living room. The pile had been bigger than the boys themselves.

 

“If there was a market for dog hair sweaters, we’d have a monopoly.”

 

“Good companions.” He said it, like it was meant to be the end of the conversation, but Sansa wasn’t ready for that yet. Not when she’d found something they could bond over. And she missed her dogs.

 

“Did you always have collies then, even after you left Scotland?” She was calm and quiet, but even then, his shoulders jumped in a way that displayed how ill at ease he was. Sansa kept playing her cards, allowing him space and time.

 

“No.” He sucked in a deep breath like it was painful. “Not since I moved.”

 

“Oh.” Sansa tapped her foot, trying to maneuver her way out of having to draw another card, but it was futile. She sighed and took another, her hand growing while his dwindled. “Pitties and Rottweilers then?”

 

“What?” His head snapped up to look at her.

 

“Your dogs, since coming over.” She waved a hand. “I feel like guys in the club always have the tough man dog breeds.”

 

“I’m not in the club.” He said lowly and she blinked, remembering just that. He wasn’t in the club, and that had been the first reason she’d ever trusted him.

 

“Still.” She had to backpedal. “If I’m a delicate little thing who likes tiny dogs, then I get to stereotype that a big strong man like you likes tough, scary dogs.”

 

“Mhmm.” He made a noncommittal noise and Sansa wondered then, as she flung her braid over her shoulder, if that was the end of the discussion. “Belgian Malinois.”

 

“What?” She looked up, having been mostly absorbed in how the hell she was going to have to pull off the comeback of the century to beat him now.

 

“That’s the breed of dog I had, here.” He seemed uncomfortable admitting it, for reasons she didn’t really understand. It was just a dog, wasn’t it?

 

“I’ve never heard of those. Are they as pretty as collies and wolves?” She questioned curiously and he shook his head.

 

“Nah, but they’re built for different things. If I wanted a new pair of boots, I’ll show you Havoc.” He smiled then, the kind of smile she’d never seen before. It was… Tender. Kind. And for a second, it seemed to diminish his scars, just a little.

 

“Alright.” She set her cards aside, trying to distract him. “Alright then smarty pants, tell me, could Havoc unlock doors and knew which room you were sleeping in so that he could sleep with you?”

 

“Mhmm.” He was unimpressed and Sansa narrowed her eyes.

 

“Could he bring you whatever you were asking for?”

 

“Mhmm.”

 

“Could he sense when something was wrong and wake you up?”

 

“Could Lady?” He stopped then, pausing to give her a concerned look, and she’d brought it up so she felt obligated to explain it, admitting,

 

“Bran has seizures. When they first started, Summer came and got our mother, but all the dogs woke us kids up first. They knew something was wrong before the seizure had even stopped.” She closed her eyes briefly, thinking of the terror of that night. Bran was better since the first time, but she wondered if anything had happened in the weeks she’d been gone. He was always having problems.

 

“Aye, he always knew when things were wrong. Saved my life, every damn day.” He remarked, sensing she didn’t want to talk and not pushing her any further. Sansa caught that wording and looked up quizzically, but he was hiding behind his cards again.

 

“Did he know when you were sad and needed cheering up?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“Could he learn new tricks on the first try?”

 

“Faster.”

 

“Alright then, tell me one thing he could do that Lady couldn’t.” She challenged. He laid his cards down, all of them, and she glared at him.

 

“Could Lady jump out of a helicopter?” He asked, with the utmost ease, and her jaw dropped in astonishment, more for his words, but also at his cards. He laughed, outright, at her face but his manner wasn’t cruel. “Little bird, how can you be so bad at go fish?”

 

“Fine.” She snapped her jaw shut. “Fine then, let’s play shithead if you keep cheating.”

 

“I don’t cheat.” He was the picture of innocence. Sansa squirmed, desperate to ask him why the hell he had a dog that knew how to jump out of a helicopter, but she knew better. That would only lead to a small scale disaster if she prodded there. So instead she shuffled and dealt, narrowing her eyes when he smiled.

 

They played for most of the afternoon, until she accepted defeat and gave in. He’d smirked then and had gotten them snacks to eat, while she drew. It wasn’t an unpleasant way to spend a calm afternoon. When he peeked to see what she was working on, she felt no desire to hide it from him.

 

“Winterfell.” She said with a faint smile. “It’s where I live.”

 

“There?” He raised his eyebrows at it. Sansa knew it didn’t look like much, her sprawling home. After all, it’d been in her family for years, and each generation had taken to tacking on additions, until it wasn’t so much a house as it was a mismatched ranch.

 

“Yeah.” She explained.

 

“Looks a little bit like…” He trailed off, as though he wasn’t going to explain what exactly it looked like that threw him off.

 

“With six kids you need a lot of space.” She informed him and he snorted in agreement.  “I haven’t even added the barns and garages yet, where they’re always tinkering around.” She threw a spare pen at him, which made him actually chuckle, and she wondered what it would take to draw an actual smile from him, if she ever were to try one day.

 

“I fucking bet.” He picked the pen up. “That what you meant then, saying that you grew up in the country?” He played with the pen idly.

 

“Yes.” Sansa thought about the trees, the pond, the sheds. “It’s a ways to town, and we weren’t allowed in the house when mom was in a mood and we weren’t allowed to be in the garages when dad and the club were home. So we entertained ourselves. The boys and Arya liked to blow stuff up, but Bran and I liked to read of draw, so we could usually find somewhere quiet and disappear.”

 

“Where did you learn?” His tone was rather polite when he handed the pen back and Sansa added a few lines to the slope of the roof above her parent’s bedroom before asking,

 

“To draw?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“Self taught.” She looked up at him and decided to go chest to chest with him. She set her pens aside. “Where’d you learn to shoot?” After a pause, a glint in his eyes told her he knew what they were doing now and before she had time to ponder if it was going to end well, he answered,

 

“Self taught. Where is Winterfell?”

 

‘North.” She wouldn’t bring herself to say any more. She trusted him not to hurt her, but she wasn’t an idiot. “Where in Scotland?”

 

“Highlands.” He didn’t get more specific than that, but Sansa decided to let him have it. She didn’t expect him to be forthcoming about things. “Why do you run?”

 

“Oh.” She hadn’t suspected that question and for a second, she didn’t actually know the answer. “You mean, when we…”

 

“When I take you out to the desert.” He added, still looking at her with the grey eyes. Without any rage in them, Sansa found them almost warm.

 

“Because I was always fast, and there were always things to run from.” She said quietly and he opened his mouth then, like he was going to ask her another question, but Sansa stopped him. Her turn. “When did you start working for them?”

 

A long pause, then he admitted, “Four months before you came.”

 

“Why them?” She asked, thinking about how differently things could have been if he’d been hired by Robb. He gave her an even stare.

 

“They paid.”

 

“Lots of people pay.” Sansa said wisely. “Rich men, stupid men, bad men, good men. You picked Joffrey and the Lions, why?”

 

“Maybe they paid the best.” He shrugged but Sansa pursed her lips. “Why do you even care about any of this then, little bird?”

 

“Because I like knowing things.” Sansa answered, instead of telling him it was because she cared. Because she wished things were different.

 

“That so?” He glanced at her. “Explains a fucking lot.”

 

“Like what?” Sansa gave him a stern look.

 

“All your fucking questions.” He told her. “Asking about my life, my dogs. Other shit. You have to peck your little beak where it doesn’t belong.”

 

“I just want to know how you got to SoCal.” She protested, with as much charm and innocence as she dared. He usually didn’t care for such things.

 

“By the same fucking bike you ride on.” He sat back, folding his arms.

 

“And how long—” She went to ask, but he cut her off with a look before asking,

 

“Do you go to college?” He asked, then was quiet with a sullen look. Taken aback by such an odd question, she just peered at him for a couple moments before saying,

 

“Yes, I did. I graduated this spring.” She could see his brain working, lining her age up against the timeline of a normal life. “I did it in three years.”

 

“How?” He demanded but she decided if he wasn’t bound to answer questions out of turn, neither was she. She then folded her arms, and demanded,

 

“When is your birthday?”

 

“I don’t have one.” His sneer was an impressive feat, so monstrous it was.

 

“Mine is March 9th.” She put her hands on her hips. “There, now you know mine. You can tell me yours. Quid pro quo.”

 

“No, you just gave me something for nothing.” He growled. She didn’t understand why he’d turned mean and mocking so quickly, only that she loathed it. But then she remembered he did not hold all the cards against her, and she picked up her notebook, wiggling it in front of his face.

 

“And this was what, exactly?”

 

“That’s to get you to stop your bloody chirping.” He was trying to be tough and she knew it, but he was in a mood and so was she now.

 

“Fine.” She flung herself down on the bed and flipped to a new page to begin work on a new sketch— this one was her family members.

 

She’d just completed the hard lines of Arya’s sharp jaw and was going to work on adding just the right amount of mournfulness to Jon’s eyes when she noticed Clegane was watching her. She didn’t mind his gaze, even if her anger hadn’t completely cooled at the way he’d talked to her earlier. It wasn’t uncommon for him to lash out, she’d seen it him do it to people other than her. She just hated when he did it with her, because he was all she had, and they both knew it.

 

She shifted so that he could see her better, moving on to do Robb’s curls. Right now they were just a collection of faces, but she’d add the bodies later. At the moment, she wanted to make sure she could recall their faces in earnest, all the way down to the little eyebrow scar Rickon had gotten when he was three and walked right into a sharp metal corner.

 

Or maybe she’d leave them as they were, a couple heads, disconnected and drifting through the space of the page. It would be all very modern and strange, and she thought it might be fitting. So she worked on the details, ruefully adding Arya’s nose ring. She’d gotten that just before their father’s death, and Sansa remembered how he’d laughed while their mother had fretted.

 

He watched her now, with fascination, so she decided to her own face next, to see if he would say anything. She always struggled with self portraits, afraid they would make her seem vain and vapid. She knew she was pretty, but if she made herself too pretty, would others think her shallow? And if she made herself too ugly, would they think her immodest?

 

It didn’t matter. She drew her high cheekbones, the big eyes that she got from her mother and the smile she got from her father and gave herself a fishtail braid that hung over one shoulder, shading her hair in. She decided she wouldn’t give her siblings bodies then, and ruin the distance the heads had. Instead, she gave each a prop of sorts that suited them best.

 

Robb got just his shoulders, and the wolf tattoo he had covering his heart. She wondered, idly, if it had healed yet. Jon got a mountain looming over his head, as though he could only think of such things. Arya had a gun that crossed over her heart and Sansa snuck glances at the gun on the table beside Clegane to make sure she got the details right. Bran had a book open in one hand, peering out from behind glasses, while Rickon was surrounded by trees, in the wild like he always was.

 

When she added a little wren nestled into her collarbone, he made a queer noise that he had to turn into a cough. She hid a smile and shaded the bird, vowing to come back to this piece. She liked the idea, and she wanted to do more with it. She glanced up at him with a small smile to let him know that she knew he was staring, and she didn’t mind.

 

“December 29th.” His words were very quiet, and for a second, she was slightly confused. Then it clicked and she smiled, looking down at the inside cover of her notebook. It was only mid-September. She wasn’t sure where they would be by his birthday, but she liked to know nonetheless. She simply nodded, didn’t press, and and went to add a few more unruly strands to Arya’s hair.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are such blessings - also the super awesome @bighound-littlebird on tumblr made the most amazing pic set for this fic, found here --> https://raginglittlehurricane.tumblr.com/image/173210875760 
> 
> (I know I said I have aesthetics for this fic, I do, I swear, you will get them soon)
> 
> Until then please let me know what you think, thanks so much for reading!


	7. Saint, VERITE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I just have to say, every review and response to this story is so awesome and I love and appreciate it so much. This is the story I am 100% most proud of, so to know you all are liking it is just... ugh. Too great. 
> 
> (this next chapter is one of my favs, enjoy!)

“No.” He was trying to stare her down, having drawn himself up to his full height, squared his formidable shoulders, and snarled in a way that he knew pulled the scars tight. The most bewildering part was that the girl before him simply folded her arms, tapped her foot, and impatiently blew a strand of copper hair out of her eyes like it was a game.

 

“I don’t see why not. We’ve already done it before.”

 

“On accident!” He hissed. “I didn’t—”

 

“I know!” She cut him off with an eye roll that made her seem just as young as she was. That made his jaw clench even more and reminded him just why they’d started having this argument in the first place. “I know you didn’t mean to.”  

 

“Good, then discussion over.” He spat and she glared.

 

“Discussion not over.” She was trying to be intimidating too, all 5 feet, 10 inches, and 100 pounds soaking wet of her, and if he wasn’t so angry, he would’ve been amused that a girl in an oversized t shirt, with her hair in a braid, could try such a thing.

 

“I’m not—”

 

“Why?” She was impatient, he could tell, by the way she tapped her foot and kept crossing and uncrossing her arms, huffing.

 

“You could—”

 

“What?” She snapped. “Do what? If you could think with that stupid, big head of yours, you’d remember that I’ve had plenty of chances to do something, and you gave me half those chances willingly! But I haven’t done anything Clegane, and you know it’s because—” She broke off, looking away with distant eyes, and he knew what words she let die.

 

_Because you’re all I have here._

 

“And if someone came in?” He tried switching focus here, trying to play on her fear of Joffrey and his mother, pointing out that anyone could see.

 

“No one will.” She jutted her chin out. “They all know that you’d never let anything happen to me. And you won’t, will you? You won’t hurt me.”

 

“No, little bird.” All the fight went out of him at that. “I won’t hurt you.”

 

_What the hell had this girl done to him?_

 

“Good.” Sansa’s smile was like the sun had burst open, spilling out rainbows, and he stared at her helplessly. “It’s settled then.”

 

“I don’t—” He wanted to keep fighting, but there really wasn’t a choice anymore. He knew he’d cave, because he always did with her. She shot him a smug look as she arranged pillows down the middle of the bed, giving it a pat for effect.

 

“See, I won’t even try to cuddle.”

 

“You better not.” He was angry, a caged dog with no way out, but why did he try to bite the hand reached out to pet him? He knew why. He knew why he did it, because the last hand to reach to him had been decades ago, and the girl had died. Sansa was just a prisoner, just Joffrey’s play thing, and he had no right to her, none at all. He couldn’t give her any more of himself, but here he was.

 

“See, and this way you can actually sleep, and maybe you won’t be so grouchy all the time, except I think you’re going to need a lot more sleep for that, and—” She was blabbering as she laid down to sleep, and he was pulling his gun and knife off, in a daze. He couldn’t quite believe that she’d talked him into sleeping beside her, in the queen sized bed.

 

She kept on with her chirping and he kept delaying the inevitable by checking the locked door, checking the small windows, checking his gun, checking the bathroom twice, arranging the knife so it was within reach if he needed it in the night, hanging his kutte carefully on the chair, checking the door again, inspecting in the closet, trying to see if the—

 

“What?” He caught Sansa’s eyes, peering at him from the bed, wondering if it was the light or something else that practically made them sparkle.

 

“Stop it. I can’t get out. No one can get in. And you’re going to collapse if you don’t sleep in something that isn’t flat and soft.” Her tone brokered no argument so he sighed and sat down, removing his boots. Sansa was quiet, across from him, and when he laid down, stiffly, she didn’t move. He closed his eyes, folding his hands across his stomach, trying to breathe deeply.

 

“Quiet.” He growled, when she began to shift and roll, trying to get comfortable.

 

“Forgive me if I can’t sleep when it’s a thousand degrees!”

 

“Don’t use so many fucking blankets then.”

 

“What sort of monster doesn’t like blankets?” Sansa demanded, scoffing, and he was quiet as she kept rustling the blankets.

 

“Lay still, goddamnit.”

 

“I’m trying to get comfy!” She protested.

 

“I can’t sleep with you making all that fucking noise.” He shot back and Sansa’s huff of indignation was overly dramatic.

 

“Says the man that can fall asleep in a chair but can’t fall asleep if I roll over?”

 

“Chairs don’t move.”

 

There was a long pause of annoyed silence, until Sansa grumbled something and finally was still. Once she remained that way, he closed his eyes again, mentally running through the process of undoing handcuffs and trying to get his tense muscles to finally relax enough to fall asleep, when her voice piped up and asked quietly, “How did you learn to fall asleep in a chair then?”

 

“Do you not know how sleeping works girl?” He grunted. “Clearly not.”

 

“I mean, I know my brothers can fall asleep almost anywhere.” She kept talking, ignoring the way he groaned in protest. “But not like that. How do you do it?”

 

“Chair’s a damn sight comfier than rocks.” He wasn’t even sure where it had come from, all he knew was that suddenly he’d said it and Sansa was rolling over to look at him in surprise, even if the dark cloaked both their expressions. He held his breath for a second, seeing if she'd reach across the barrier of pillows she’d made to keep them apart.

 

“Did you camp a lot then, when…” She trailed off at his snort of derision and he knew, without looking, at how her lips would be pursed, her nose and forehead wrinkled. She liked being sassy, but disliked being on the receiving end of it. Her tone was icy when she added, “You know, you don’t have to be so damned nasty every time I ask you a simple question. It’s not polite.” 

 

“Did you think my family was the kind of go hiking through the woods then?” He mocked. “My father teaching me to fish, my mother making hot cocoa over the fire, while my brother and I whittled? Think there were many happy trips in my life?”

 

“No.” She shot back and he half wondered if she was going to push him from her bed. “But considering the only things I know about you are that you’re from Scotland—I don’t even know which part except highlands, which is basically half the fucking country, and that you left because you lost your younger sister and parents— excuse me for thinking that I might get to know a little more about you, since you know everything about me! I don’t even know your first name!”

 

“My name is the fucking Hound.” He gave a humorless laugh.

 

“It is not!” He was surprised at how stern her tone was. He didn’t understood why it mattered to her, so he turned his head in the darkness, though he knew he’d simply see black.

 

“Then what is it, girl?”

 

“I don’t know, that’s why you tell me, not the other way around!”

 

“And what do I get, for telling you?”

 

“You’re already sleeping in my bed instead of a chair, isn’t that enough?”

 

“I didn’t ask for this. You fucking ordered me.”

 

“Because you were practically a dead man walking!”

 

“Still didn’t fucking ask.”  

 

“Stop being difficult and tell me then. I’ll tell you whatever you want later.” Sansa’s tone was sharp, even if she meant to be kind.

 

He blew out a long breath, long enough that he felt Sansa start to shift next to him, like she was squirming uneasily, and he found he liked it. He liked when she was uncomfortable, because then she finally had a sense of what it was like to be him around her, constantly. He never felt on stable footing with her, and he didn’t know who was more at fault for that.

 

“What the fuck does my name matter? I’m no Stark. I’m no one.” He said flatly, thinking of his last name, what it had meant back in Scotland.

 

“What does that mean?” She was angry, he could hear it in her voice. Flushed, likely, with those blue eyes narrowed dangerously.

 

“You know.”

 

“You think that just because I have some important last name, I think I’m better than everyone else? In case you haven’t noticed, Clegane, I’m trapped. I’m at Joffrey’s whims, and the only thing my last name does here is make me even more of a target. So don’t give me that bullshit about names being important.” Her voice broke on the last note and he felt guilt. He’d wanted to make her uncomfortable, not remind her of what situation she was in. He let himself stew for a couple minutes in the frustrated silence she held over him, before answering,

 

“It’s Sandor.”

 

“Sandor?” He wasn’t expecting his first name, the one his parents gifted to him, to feel like such a punch to the gut when it came in the form of her sweet voice. How long had it been since someone had called him that? How much longer still had it been a woman? Certainly not since before… “I like it. It’s a good name. It fits you.” Her voice had turned tender, to his alarm.

 

“Mhmm.” He grunted, not up to say much else. She flipped again and this time she was facing him. He could tell, because all the hairs on his body rose up.

 

“Do you know what it means?”

 

“Should I?” Now that his eyes had adjusted, he could make out the faint outline of her face, though he couldn’t see her expression and that worried him. He liked to watch her face, because Sansa’s thoughts were always reflected there.

 

“It’s always interesting. I like seeing if the meaning matches the person.”

 

“Matches?”

 

“Yeah. Because if you know the meaning, then you can tell if it’s a good fit. You know, if someone’s name means bright, and they’re an asshole, obviously it doesn’t fit.” She explained and he had to hold back a snigger of amusement.

 

“And what’s Sansa mean?”

 

“Um, nothing.” She squeaked and he raised an eyebrow before remembering she couldn’t see him and instead rasped,

 

“Tell me.”

 

“It means a couple things.” A long pause of hesitation before she offered slowly, “It means praise, or charm, and saint, and in Latin, it means sacred. I know, my parents very presumptuous. I’m so vain, blah, blah, blah. It’s stupid, and dumb.”

 

“No,” He was very determinedly squashing all the butterflies in his stomach, plucking their wings off, and smashing them. “You’re right. It fits.”

 

“Oh.” She seemed pleased with that answer. She rustled around a little, then sighed. “I wish I knew what yours meant.”

 

“Probably nothing.” He didn’t think his parents had put much thought into his name. He’d never understood it as a child, the rather strange name his parents gave their children, but he hadn’t questioned it. Now, he did. He wondered what his brother’s name meant, what his sister’s name did.

 

“All names mean something.” She said stoutly and he was silent. He had nothing else to say here. She, apparently, was not done. “Robb means bright and shining. He liked to hold that one over our heads. Jon means gift from god, so we teased him about that. Arya means pure and noble, so that doesn’t fit at all. Bran means crow. And Rickon is a bunch of things, I think one was strange, or mystical—”

 

“How?” He demanded suddenly. Surely she wasn’t an expert in names. Is that what she went to college for? At the reminder of how far apart they were, how much better she was always going to be than him, a flash of anger at himself went through him again, and his next words were ground out unwillingly. “How do you know what they mean?”

 

“Oh.” He perceived her relaxing by the shift of the blankets, after she’d tensed at his tone. “My parents had photos of us, as babies. They hung in the hallway outside their rooms— Robb, then Jon, then me, Arya, Bran, Rickon— and they have our names and the meanings at the bottom.”

 

“Ah.” He thought of a long hallway with photos of babies. There’d never been pictures on the walls of his home, because so often they were ripped down and shattered, by… He very nearly shook his head to clear the memories of his childhood away. He wondered about her’s instead. What was it like? To have parents that hung photos of babies, when decorated their walls with smiling images of their offspring? He’d bet his life Sansa’s home was covered with photos.

 

“It’s silly, you know? But that’s what I remember best.” She was telling him of home, and her tone took on that longing that it always did, when she drifted back north in her thoughts. It was starting to make him heart clenched when she did. “Every time I walked to their bedroom it was the same. Rickon, mystical, Bran, crow, Arya…” She trailed off and was finally silent.

 

“I’m sorry you miss them.” He whispered and regretted it instantly. How fucking pathetic did he sound, apologizing for something he didn’t even do? He winched and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. She’d spit on him, or remind him curtly that if he was so sorry, he could take her to them. What he did not expect, in the slightest, was a thin hand to reach over the wall of pillows, patting first his arm, before finding its way to his chest. It rested on his left side above his heart, for a few long moments.

 

“I know. I can tell you miss someone too.” Her voice was a whisper, and despite it’s breathy tones, she might as well have been screaming at him, for how loudly it resonated. He thought of his sister, her innocence, and felt, for the first time in years, the ache inside him that he’d done nothing for her, nothing at all, and how useless he’d been in protecting her.

 

He held his breath, waiting for Sansa to go on. Waiting for that smart mouth to say something else, to make some comment that would send him into yet another tailspin of doubt and questioning. When she didn’t, he began to flounder. He didn’t know how to say anything, anything at all, in the face of her. So he did what he knew best, and demanded roughly,

 

“You said you would tell me anything.”

 

“I will, if you tell me why you sleep on rocks.” She sounded sleepy, and not in the least bit scared. Maybe it was because her fingers stayed on his chest, resting there like it wasn’t anything special, that she wasn’t taming a beast with every moment.

 

“Wasn’t the deal.”

 

“Don’t give a fuck. Did you promise anything?”

 

“I…” He trailed off there, realizing slowly that she was smart, smarter than anyone here thought she was. And he wanted her to say fuck again. He liked that. “Fine.”

 

“Do tell.” She was drowsy, and he half wondered that if he said nothing, nothing at all, she might just fall asleep and forget about all of it. Then her sharp little claws dug into his chest for a moment and he was reminded that she wasn’t just a chirping bird who could be distracted. She was a wolf, a wolf from the north country, and she was going to devour him whole.

 

“There are lots of rocks in Scotland. Someone has to sleep on them.” Nails, again, in his chest and longer this time. A wild thought about how they’d feel going down his back flashed through his mind. “England then.” Nails, barely dulled by his tank top. “Christ girl! Alright, fine. I slept on rocks everywhere. Romania to Oman to all the fucking ‘stans’. Lots of rocks.”

 

“Why?”

 

“No more questions.” He growled and he knew that she was going to pout, but he actually was tired, and the bed was soft, and he felt oddly secure in the knowledge that she was there. He tried to tell himself that having her close meant that he knew where she was and made it easier to make sure she wasn’t going to escape, but he never was good at lying.

 

“Alright, but you still get to ask one. Whatever you want.” Her tone was reluctant, and the wild, bitter, savage part of him wanted to ask about her brothers. Ask her where Jon, the nomad, was. Threaten her with that information, hang it over her head and say he was going to Joffrey. That would keep her from poking and prodding her little beak where it didn’t belong.

 

Except he didn’t. He didn’t ask her about Jon the nomad or Robb the king or her family back at Winterfell, wherever that was. He didn’t ask her any of that, and because he was either a bloody coward or an absolute glutton for pain, the one question he asked Sansa Stark, knowing he would get an utterly truthful response, was, “Why’d you come here?”

 

A long silence greeted his question, and he was certain that she was going to break her promise and not answer him. But he remembered what she’d said, about keeping her word. About how it was all she had left, here. He waited for her answer, and tried to ignore the deep sadness he could feel from her to the best of his abilities. Despair was in her voice when she spoke.

 

“I thought I could, I don’t know, do something. I was an over confident idiot, I was angry at my mother and Robb, grieving my father, scared after being done with school, and I got it in my head that I could come down here and do… Something. I thought I would make it different. Make it better.” She went quiet. “Are you going to tell me I’m a fucking idiot now?”

 

“No.” He said heavily, resting a large hand over her smaller one and keeping it pressed there above his chest. He liked the little weight there, and not just because it reassured him she wasn’t reaching for a knife to slit his throat. “You were grieving.”

 

“I still am.”

 

Abruptly then, she became the girl he first saw here, the little skinny girl who’d lost her father and had been captured by lions, held hostage and against her will. Her thin fingers flipped under his palm and threaded themselves with his far larger ones, until their clasped hands rested against his chest and her even breathing told him this time, she really had fallen asleep.

 

He was not far after.

 

* * *

 

He’d always been an early riser. Usually, if the sun was up, then so was he, and that made things all the easier. In the past, it had meant beating Gregor out of the house and sparing himself a bit of pain. After he’d left home, it had meant that he could keep moving, one step ahead of the police that came under bridges and overpasses, looking for types like him. It had been his biggest asset in his years between homelessness and now, when rising early was a requirement.

 

He had not expected to be beaten by a one Sansa Stark, of all people, when it came to getting up before the sun. But there she was, sitting against the headboard, a pillow that once separated them now in her lap, and on top of it, her notebook. She sketched, looking lost in her own thoughts. He held still, trying not to alert her to the fact that he had woken up.

 

If he was a different man, he’d think about how the light, shafting through the window, made her hair shine like a piece of burnished amber. Or how her skin was smooth and pale,with her dainty nose just slightly red from a sunburn gotten while running through the wilds while he shot. He might notice her pretty blue eyes, deeply focused on her drawing.

 

But he determinedly told himself he only noticed that his knife and gun remained where he placed them last night, and that she hadn’t touched them. He’d slept well, all night long, and apparently so had she. At his shifting, she looked up and a slight smile graced her lips. She wasn’t alarmed, in the slightest, of the current predicament that they were in.

 

“Good morning.”

 

“Morning.” He grunted, getting up hastily. He made a show of grabbing his gun and knife, before pulling his kutte on and turning back to her. She was staring down at her work, before sighing and flipping to a clean page. She looked up and caught his quizzical expression.

 

“What?”

 

“What was… That?” He asked awkwardly. Whatever she was drawing now looked familiar. With nothing more than a faint blush, she flipped back to it, handing him the notebook. With a start, he realized she’d been drawing the tattoo that covered most of his bicep. It was snarling hounds, emerging from what might have been smoke or fog. It didn’t matter— she’d gotten most of the details right.

 

“I like to practice the details and I didn’t want to keep drawing myself.” She seemed eager to explain it to him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

 

“Don’t draw that bloody old thing, little bird.” He said gruffly, handing her back the notebook. “Draw something new for me.”

 

“Oh.” A little surprised, Sansa took it, letting the pages fall to a new page. He wasn’t sure what he meant by that. Surely it wasn’t to insinuate that he wanted her to design him a tattoo. No, never. It was… With a short nod to her, he decided retreat was the best option, and vowed to go get her breakfast. No one else was up, and so his retrieval of food went unimpeded.

 

“Here.” He shoved the food at Sansa when he got back up to the room, and Sansa set everything aside so that they could share their breakfast on the table. She sat on the bed and he in the chair, spreading the food between them with ease. Sansa nibbled on a granola bar while he polished off another breakfast burrito. Occasionally Sansa’s gaze would find his tattoo and spring back up again.

 

“Do you have many?” She blurted out rather awkwardly and he looked up at her, frowning just slightly. She was avoiding his eyes slightly.

 

“What?” He questioned.

 

“Tattoos.” Sansa explained, spinning the stem of an apple.

 

“Oh.” He had to pause, thinking about it. “More than most, I’d wager. Why?”

 

“Curiosity.” Sansa shrugged. “Most of the guys in the club have a bunch. Robb and Jon got their first ones at 14 and everyone joked that they were off to a late start.”

 

“Sounds about right.” He had to chuckle then. Even Joffrey, the cunt, had full sleeves on both arms of gaudy work, mostly lions and skulls. “What about you then?”

 

“What about me?” Sansa tilted her head slightly.

 

“You have any?” The clothes she wore left little to the imagination, but he didn’t need her to know that he’d memorized her skin.

 

“Oh, no.” She gave a little laugh. “No, I don’t have any. I guess I’m a bit different from other kids out there. My form of rebellion was to not get tattoos. It seemed so final, you know? There’s nothing in my life that I’m sure of enough to get it on me, forever.”

 

“Not even your Lady?” He suggested with a raised eyebrow and Sansa made a face, taking the first bite from the apple.

 

“Me, a Stark, getting a wolf tattooed on me. I couldn’t imagine anything more positively cliche. That’s always the tattoo that my family gets.” She complained.

 

“You’re a fucking wolf.” He reminded her, with no small amount of snark. Sansa gave him a dirty look but didn’t throw anything at him, which he knew meant she wasn’t too angry.

 

“I’m not a fucking wolf, any more than you are.” She said frankly. “I’m a woman. Even if I did get a bike and join up, I’d never be one of them.”

 

“Starting an all girl biker gang?” The suggestion amused him, the idea of Sansa on a bike alone, wielding a gun in a kutte of her own making.

 

“Not me, but I wouldn’t put it past Arya.” She told him. He tilted his head, interested. He heard little of her younger sister. She would tell him about her brothers, but rarely did she say anything about Arya, beyond the fact that they were opposites.

 

“She’d give Joffrey a run for his fucking money.” He meant for it to be joking, but Sansa didn’t laugh. Instead she gave him a sad sort of smile.

 

“She would, actually. She’s worse than Robb. At least he could be reasoned with, and you can make him listen if you try hard enough. Jon has more sense and logic. But Arya’s something else, pure wildness all the way through, and she’s not afraid of anything.” Sansa’s tone was wistful and sad. He watched her, unsure of what to say to that. He couldn’t imagine anyone but Sansa.

 

“She got a wolf tattoo?” He asked her, a little roughly and Sansa nodded, picking up her notebook and flipping through it.

 

“I drew a couple.” She explained, handing him the pages. “From what I can remember. She always has a new one though.”

 

“Nice.” He remarked, despite himself. The designs were of wolves, howling wolves, stalking wolves, vicious wolves. Though he couldn’t imagine a single one on Sansa’s skin, he was sure that if Arya was half what Sansa described her as, these tattoos would fit her well enough.

 

“That one was my father’s.” Sansa said sadly, when he flipped the page and saw the design there. It was a wolf head, detailed, with sad, serious eyes that seemed to peer into his soul. He glanced up at her, wondering how the hell she could draw it from memory. She remained silent, until he handed her the notebook back. She flipped it shut almost too quickly.

 

“We could do something today.” He said, trying to distract her from the grim thoughts he knew were sweeping through her mind now. She looked up at him and gave him a little smile.

 

“Like what?” She asked, spitting out a bit her apple that had turned mushy. He ignored it, trying to think of what they could do that wouldn’t arose suspecison from the club or the women. He sighed when he came up empty handed, looking at her.

 

“Gun range?”

 

“Clegane.” She reached across the table and his breath caught when she took his hand.

 

“Aye?”

 

“You’re doing enough.” She squeezed his hand. “We don’t need to go anywhere. I’m perfectly content right here, thank you.”

 

“I…” He didn’t know what to say. To offer her anything would be a betrayal against Joffrey and the club, but he was fairly certain he’d passed that line in the sand long ago.

 

“I have an idea.” Sansa declared. “I’ll trace your tattoos. That will be a fun study for me. You can clean your guns or sharpen your knives or whatever you’d like.”

 

“Alright.” He agreed and Sansa smiled at him warmly, her eyes scrunched up in happiness as she finished off her apple.

 

He sat in the chair with his weapons and Sansa sat on the bed, notebook in her lap. He’d rolled the sleeve of his shirt up so that she could see the entire tattoo and occasionally she’d look up and make a little noise of annoyance of distress. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, as she sketched the tattoo then added details, carefully erasing when it wasn’t up to her standards.

 

He wondered if she was going to alter the dogs in the tattoo to look like wolves. He didn’t like where those thoughts led him, so he affixed his attention back on his knife until he was lost in the process of finally honing them, making sure each edge was sharp and cleared of rust. He was so absorbed in the task that he didn’t look up until Sansa stretched and ambled off to the bathroom. Then he glanced down at the work she’d been doing, and very nearly smiled.

 

Instead of just the tattoo, Sansa had also done his jawline and lips, in profile. It was his ruined side, but she didn’t make his scars too ugly, nor had she erased them at all. He stared at the work until she came back out of the bathroom and caught his eye. She bit her lip but smiled, crawling back onto the bed and looking down at the art before up at him.

 

“Like it?” She asked carefully and he gave a little hum, pretending not to notice her smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me what you think?! seriously. also this song is so Sandor, go give it a listen!
> 
> Thank you for reading!!!


	8. Bird Set Free, Sia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI EARLY CHAPTER BC I GET TO UP AND MOVE MY LIFE 5 AND A HALF HOURS THIS WEEKEND SO SPREAD LOVE AND GOOD VIBES MY WAY, PREFERABLY WITH REVIEWS.
> 
> also here's a fun author's note that y'all can totally skip if you so desire - while writing this, it was way easier to write Sandor's chapters and I liked them a lot more tbh, but now as I'm rereading and posting, I like Sansa chapters equally, if not more. 
> 
> So here you go, another Sansa chapter that I love.

She knew the days were passing, because she went to sleep and woke up, and outside her window the sun doing the same. But it felt like she was in a time warp, or held in some hazy ether, outside the time stream, where it slipped by and she remained halted in the same day, repeated. She went through her motions like a robot, always the same thing.

 

Wake up, usually beside Sandor. Sandor, as she now called him in her head, though never aloud. It was a toss up, to see who would wake before the other. If she woke first, she sketched him. It was frustrating, trying to master the exact look of all the hair he had on his chest, but she thought she was getting better. She decided not to draw a new tattoo. That felt like too tall an order.

 

If he woke up, she was usually treated to grunts as he did sit ups, push ups, wall sits, planks, any form of exercise that didn’t require weights or a bench on the floor between the bed and the door. Once she had offered to show him some yoga poses she liked to stretch, and the look on his face, though amusing, had made sure she never tried that again.

 

Then it was time to shower and get ready for the day, with a never ending parade of red and gold outfits, never long enough to cover both her boobs and butt, with her stripper heels. Unless she was going to go with Sandor. Then she was treated to a sports bra, shitty running shorts, and a tee shirt she’d cut until it was basically scraps of fabric that hung from her shoulders.

 

She liked those days best, when they would go to the gun range and he would shoot while she ran, barefoot, across the hot sands, until she was aching, and she forgot, just for a moment, that she was fucked. The first time she screamed while she ran, he’d swung to look at her with concern but when he knew she wasn’t in danger, he’d let her carry on.

 

However, if she wasn’t running, she was scrubbing the floors and the toilets and the cum stained sheets of the clubhouse and porn studio. She hated that, because she usually had to endure the torments of the old ladies, sweet butts, strippers, and hookers then. She kept her cool by looking down at her wrist, at the scar from when she’d broken her wrist with Arya.

 

The thought of what her sister was going to do to everyone gave her resilience. She’d known the wildness behind her sisters eyes. She saw it in most of the men that rode alongside her brother. She had no doubts about the kind of woman that her sister was going to be. And rather than fear or loathe it like she once had, she embraced it. She welcomed it. If she wasn’t strong enough, Arya would be.

 

Then there were the nights, which were the worst, no contention. She had to serve beers and sit on laps, doing whatever Joffrey commanded. The men leered at her, touched her, but never any further than Joffrey allowed. He seemed to still want to hold that threat of hurting her over her head, but it didn’t mean that she wasn’t subjected to some of his more sadistic whims.

 

He never hit her in front of Sandor, because he knew the bodyguard would never allow it. But if Sandor was gone, her face met the back of the Toad’s hand more often than not. She almost preferred that, because then she’d be dismissed to clean herself up and could remain in her room. If she wasn’t being beaten, then she was forced to let the men manhandle her.

 

She could handle slaps on the ass from the men. She didn’t particularly care. But whenever she neared Littlefinger, with his slimy smile and wandering hands, she got the sense that he would do something incredibly evil if left alone with her. He rattled her to her core, with his soft words and suggestions. She hated him more than anyone, besides Joffrey and his mother.

 

Cersei was nearly as bad as her son when it came to torture and punishment. Just because they went about it differently meant it was no less horrifying. Once, when Sansa had accidentally dropped a beer that had shattered behind the bar, Cersei had smiled and then pulled Sansa’s hair so hard she’d collapsed to her knees and understood why people said they saw stars.

 

The queen's prefered strategy, however, was psychological warfare. She rained insults and thinly veiled threats down constantly, until Sansa felt that she was going to drown in the onslaught of hatred. The only thing that made it even mildly worth it were the early mornings of peace, when Sandor was still sleeping, and she could think to herself. That, and when he took her to the diner, and let her order a milkshake.

 

Today, however, had the possibility of shaping up to be a good day. Joffrey was far away, riding somewhere with all the club and several other charters. He’d boasted about meeting her brother in battle and how he’d be in the middle of the fighting, the one to kill Robb himself. Sansa had wanted to laugh in his face. Joffrey would never let himself be caught in the midst of such a thing.

 

_Coward._

 

But with him gone, that meant she was mostly left to Cersei’s whims. But the older woman was distracted, worrying about her son’s safety, and as long as Sansa stayed far from her eyes, she could get away with almost anything. So today, with a nearly deserted clubhouse, she felt like it had the chance to be a different sort of day. She went to find Sandor.

 

“What?” He had just finished lifting weights when she stepped in front of him. He looked down at her skeptically, and she knew why. For once, she didn’t have to make herself up like some whore. Today she wore shorts that were still just a tad too short, and a tank top. But she wasn’t the worst she’d ever been. He rewarded her with a dry question and a drier look.

 

“What do you want to do today?” The fact that she was beyond the reach of Cersei and her monstrous son, even if just for a moment, was enough to make her want to skip, or even sing.

 

“What?” He looked at her like she had two heads and she trailed after him eagerly as he made his way towards the shower.

 

“Well, they’re all gone. We could do anything.”

 

“You could sit quietly in your rooms.” He growled and she brushed it off. He didn’t mean that, because then he’d have to sit in her rooms as well, and be bored. He hated being still and quiet there. It was better for him to pretend that he had to drag her everywhere. She knew that at the first sign of her happiness here, Joffrey would squash it like a bug.

 

“Orrrrrrrrrrr…” She purposely drug out her words, knowing that it annoyed him. She was rewarded with a glare as he paused in front of the bathroom where he would shower. “We do whatever we wanted. We could even go get ice cream.”

 

“Ice cream?” He looked at her incredulously.

 

“Everyone likes ice cream.” She batted her eyes innocently. “Even you.”

 

“To your room girl.” He grunted and Sansa went, but not without a smile. She might not be getting ice cream, but she knew she would leave the clubhouse, and that was enough.

 

She waited patiently, idly sketching when he returned. It was a landscape, or rather the idea of a landscape. She had recalled, briefly, a movie she’d watched several years ago with Jon. A cult classic, he’d said, and not a movie that she’d ever pick, but he was always into offbeat things like that. He’d read the book, by a famous Scottish author, then watched the movie with her.

 

She didn’t remember much about the movie except that it was captivating in the strangest of ways. She hadn’t liked it exactly, but she hadn’t been able to stop watching it, enthralled, as the addicts spiraled out of control. She’d felt a bit like them, back then. Unable to control anything. Jon had watched it, pointing out subtle little details to her, but she’d been overwhelmed by it as a whole.

 

But it had been set in Scotland, and she remembered one scene where they traversed the countryside. It had been stunning, and it had set her desire to go to Scotland firmly in stone. Now she tried to recall the landscape from memory, the crags and valleys. She knew Sandor would absolutely hate it. She knew he’d smack the notebook from her hands. But there was an inexplicable need for her to draw it still. Besides, she reminded herself, she didn’t have to show him.

 

“Ice cream?” She looked up hopefully when he walked in, hair still damp from his shower. He shook his head like one of the wolves might’ve after getting wet, and it brought a smile, unbidden, to her lips.

 

“No.”

 

“Fine. But I don’t want to stay here and waste the one chance I have to be rid of them.” She tilted her chin and he regarded her with his steel grey eyes, before finally groaning, slightly, in a way that she knew had meant she’d won this arguement.

 

“—Think I’m your damn knight in shining armor, I am not. I’m not going to take you away from here, not for all the pretty smiles in the world, and—” He was ranting now as he made sure he had everything, but she hardly paid attention to any of his words, giddy with anticipation. She didn’t even care that he was going to return her back to her cage. All she cared about was that today, she’d get to be free of it all.

 

“What are we doing?” She asked, following him downstairs and he just glared again. “I mean, you said no ice cream, so I’m just wondering what you’ve got in mind.”

 

“I am not your babysitter.” He muttered darkly and Sansa quirked an eyebrow at him, but hastily shut up when they had to walk past the few lingering women. Sansa knew enough to keep her head down, look quiet and timid, and scared of the snarling man that seemed to drag her out. That’s what the women wanted to see, so that’s what she gave them.  

 

“Where are we going?” She whispered once they were outside and he just grunted, getting on the bike. Sansa followed without hesitation, locking her arms around his waist. “Where are we going?” She yelled over the roar of the bike and this time she actually got an answer back.

 

“Haven’t decided yet.”

 

They fairly flew through the countryside and at a point, Sansa released her arms and spread them wide, yelling with joy. She was a true bird then, with the currents under her wings. Mostly importantly, she was free, free to do as she wished, whatever she wanted. Free, for a moment, to be Sansa Stark again. That’s what she told herself as she clung to him and relished the wind on her face.

 

She was almost sad when he began to slow, until she saw the small gas station he was approaching. She had a wild thought that she could leave while he paid, steal a car and make a wild dash for it. She’d peel away, in a storm of dust, and they’d never find her until she was far north, back home where she belonged. Then she saw the police cars sitting outside.

 

“Oh.” The word left her lips before she could stop it and he stiffened, as if he knew exactly what the hell she was thinking. And she reminded herself that he did. He always did.

 

“We’re not out of Lion territory yet girl.” He growled, cutting the engine and backing into the stall. “They won’t help you.”

 

“I know.” Sansa kept her gaze on the two men, reclining on their own cruisers. One held a donut, the other a cigarette. “Joffrey murdered my father and they just watched.”

 

“Aye.” He didn’t say anything after that, as he filled the tank. She stayed where she was sitting on the bike, idly wondering if it was possible to set them on fire with her gaze alone. She could sure as hell try. Then suddenly Sandor had her upper arm and was dragging her inside. She followed after, stumbling and he released her when they entered the store.

 

“Can I get something?” She asked quickly, looking around at the bags of chips and bottled soda and wishing there was a bigger selection.

 

“One thing.” He snarled, already going for cigarettes. Surprised but delighted at the unexpected boon, Sansa took her time, wandering through the aisles, wondering what to get. She didn’t want to squander her one chance. Then her gaze alighted on a small freezer, shoved in a corner, windows covered in frost. Eagerly, she opened it, and spotted exactly what she wanted.

 

“Ok, ready.” She said breathlessly, when he was waiting by the counter, impatiently tapping his foot. He took one look at the item in her hands and instantly said,

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?” She looked down at the small carton of ice cream.

 

“It’s going to melt!” He protested.

 

“Not if I eat it fast enough.” She said defiantly. “You said we could get ice cream.”

 

“I never said that.” He was exasperated and Sansa forcefully set the ice cream down on the counter, alongside the cigarettes.

 

“Y’all are cute.” The cashier, a teenage girl with her hair dyed blue and a lip piercing, observed with amusement. Sandor turned to the young girl, opening his mouth, likely to blow her away with his yells, but Sansa wrapped her arm around his waist and settled her head on his chest. She gave the girl her brightest smile while digging her nails into Sandor’s side.

 

“Oh, thanks.”

 

“How long have you two been together?” She asked, as she scanned the items and he was gaping like a gutted fish, but Sansa simply beamed.

 

“Couple of months. I’d say we are still in the honeymoon stage, but we’re clearly not.” Sansa pretended to pout, looking up at Sandor, and the girl snorted. He’d settled on glowering, and Sansa knew that she was going to get a verbal lashing soon enough. She simply grabbed the ice cream and opened the top, pulling out the spoon she’d swiped and sticking it in.

 

Lemon cake ice cream. It was her favorite and she was surprised to find it here, but she was too delighted to ask any questions. It was sweet and she savored the first bite, but not for very long, since Sandor was stalking out of the gas station, past the cops, and back to his bike. Sansa trailed after him, trying to walk and eat all at once in the vicious heat.

 

“If any of that drips my bike I will leave you on the side of the highway.” He threatened murderously and Sansa stuck the spoon in her mouth before securing the top.

 

“No you won’t.” She declared adamantly. “Then you wouldn’t get paid.” He made a noise of frustration, before pacing back and forth, eyes occasionally darting up towards where the cashier girl now idly read a magazine through the window.

 

“Why’d you do that, huh?” He demanded, agitated. Sansa frowned, tilting her head.

 

“What? You didn’t have to buy me ice cream, but—“

 

“Not that.” He growled. “Why’d you lie?”

 

“Lie?” She wracked her brain, trying to figure out what he meant.

 

“Yes!” He grabbed her shoulders and shook, just slightly. “About being… Being with me!”

 

“Oh, that I was your girlfriend?” Sansa gave him an incredulous look. “Because she might be the only person in SoCal that doesn’t know I’m Joffrey’s prisoner, and I didn’t want to spill those beans. I think it’d be a little difficult to explain our situation, huh Clegane? Don’t you?” She pressed and he sighed, running his hands through his hair, making it messy.

 

“No.” He was calming down, seeing her point. “I guess… Not…”

 

“God, you don’t have to act like dating me is the worst thing in the word.” Sansa tossed her braid over her shoulder. “Some guys might even like it.”

 

“Let’s go.” He truly glared at her then and she got on the bike before he could make good on his promise and leave her.

 

He drove at a furious speed and she knew her ice cream would be a soupy mess, but she didn’t dare try to figure out a way to take a bite or risk falling off. She wasn’t sure if he’d even turn around if she tumbled onto the road. He certainly wasn’t driving like he cared about the safety of his passenger, or of the state of her rapidly melting ice cream. Still, Sansa held her tongue and her spoon.

 

He kept driving, until they arrived at a narrow dirt road. He eased the bike down it, until they stopped in a small meadow. The trees overhead provided relief from the relentless sun, and there was a creek, though hardly any water flowed down it given the long drought they were currently entrenched in. Sansa thought it might have been a pretty place, if it hadn't been so hot.

 

He got up and went to relax in the shade, while she popped the top of her ice cream once more. It was indeed more liquid than ice cream, but it was still sweet, and she ate it as she wandered around the proximity of the meadow. He didn’t say a word, reclining, but his eyes followed her the entire time, and she knew he was ready if she decided to run.

 

“Why do you hate the city so much?” She questioned, noting one of the trees with a low branch. She finished off the last remaining bit of the liquid ice cream, before setting her trash aside and looking up at the tree thoughtfully, inspecting it.

 

“Hate people.” He muttered, closing his eyes. Sansa tensed her legs then jumped, catching the rough branch in her palms. The bark dug in, but she didn’t mind.

 

“Yeah, obviously. Why else?” She tried to swing her legs up so that she could catch the branch with her ankles, wondering how the hell she was going to hoist herself up. She really should’ve joined her brothers and Arya in the gym to work on her upper body.

 

“Does there have to— what the hell are you doing?” He demanded loudly and she paused, glancing over at him. They made a rather comical pair, with him laying in the grass, while she hung like a koala from the lower branches of a tree.

 

“Climbing.” She informed him, and a smile threatened at the corners of her mouth. How many times had she heard that exact exchange with her mother and Bran?

 

“Why?”

 

“Because.”

 

“I thought you were a bloody lady.” He said it mockingly, but she just shrugged as best she could and worked to pull herself up. “Ladies don’t usually climb trees, do they?”

 

“No.” She admitted, scrambling for purchase and after a few grunts and muffled curses, she managed to get up, straddling a branch triumphantly. “My siblings did though. Arya, a lot, and Bran even more, before he…” She trailed off, remembering how he’d suffered a seizure and had fallen.

 

“So why are you climbing?” He asked pointedly and she took a deep breath and stood, looking for the next branch to reach for.

 

“Because maybe if I get high enough I’ll be able to see home.” She muttered sarcastically, reaching for the branch and grinning when she caught it and began the long work of summiting the tree. He was quiet, and she knew that he understood why she’d given him such an answer. He knew it was because she needed to keep herself busy, because it reminded her of home, because she missed her siblings more than anything.

 

“Enough.” He called, a few minutes, when she was amongst the thin top branches. “What happens when those fucking branches can’t support what little weight you do have? You’re not a fucking little bird for true, you know that, girl.” She looked down at him in slight surprise. She thought he was asleep, or at least wasn’t watching her that closely.

 

“Alright.” She agreed, halting. She sat, leaning her back against the trunk and looking out over the other treetops. It was hot, but at least up here there was a slight breeze. She closed her eyes and sat, trying to find peace for a moment.

 

“If you fall asleep and fall, I’m not bringing you back.” He growled, a while later, and Sansa didn’t bother to open her eyes.

 

“I know, you don’t get paid if I die.”

 

“Mhmm.” He grunted, but she could tell that it was with amusement. She stayed where she was, and he stayed where he was, and neither had anything to say. Until he broke the silence with an angry question. “So what’d you study in college then?”

 

“Pardon?” Sansa looked down at him with surprise, unsure why he was asking the question in the first place, and why he said it with so much bitterness. College always seemed to touch a raw nerve with him, but for the life of her she couldn’t understand why he would care so much. She tried to get a read on him, but his eyes were still clenched closed, brow furrowed.

 

“In fucking college.” He ground the words out as though they were against his will. “What did you fucking study there?”

 

“Lit major.” She said automatically, thinking of all the times she’d had to introduce herself over the years, so many times it was second nature. _Hi, I’m Sansa Stark, I’m a third year literature major with minors in history and drawing, and I’ll be showing you around today._

 

“So you read books?” He snorted.

 

“Yes, lots of them.” She was well accustomed to what people thought of English majors. “And I wrote lots of papers, and I spent a lot of time in the library. No, I’m not going to be a librarian, and no, I won’t dress up as a sexy version for Halloween. What other tropes do you want to ask?”

 

“What’s your fucking problem?” He did open his eyes then to glare up at her, and she glared right back, angry and overheated.

 

“I know that everyone thinks that it’s so funny, stereotyping me as a quiet little nerd, because I like to read classic books.” She huffed.

 

“Like I’d fucking know.” His next words were barely concealed venom. “Not like I went to fucking college like a girl like you.”

 

“Oh.” Sansa was quiet, reminding herself that it was true. He didn’t mean anything maliciously. He’d probably just asked because he was genuinely curious, and she’d snapped at him, all because she assumed he’d make the same comments as her mother, Robb, Arya, the rest.

 

“Didn’t have a rich mommy and daddy to pay my way.” He grumbled and Sansa shot up like she’d been prodded with a hot poker.

 

“My mother and father did not pay my way through college!” She told him furiously. “I did it on my fucking own! Me, not anyone else!”

 

“Did you?” He mocked her now, openly. “Did you show up with your car and your clothes, and tell everyone you were paying your way through school, while your parents put money into your account so you could get drunk at some bar every weekend?”

 

“That’s not how it was!” Sansa was mad now, at him, at everyone. The spoiled little rich girl. That’s all they saw. That was all anyone ever saw, and she hated it with every fiber of her being. Because she wore soft clothes and liked pastels meant she was weak, didn’t it? Her soft words made her less of a wolf than Robb with his leather and Arya with her steel.

 

“Wasn’t it?” He sneered now. “Seems like it.”

 

“I got scholarships. I applied for them, I wrote essays for them. I studied my ass off, and I got good grades to keep them! So don’t start telling me that I’m some little trust fund baby. Not when I got the same thing as Robb and Jon— I bought college with mine, and they bought bikes!” She was angry, furious with him. Furious with what she’d landed in, and he was the only one to take it out on, so she did.

 

“And aren’t you just the most special princess there ever was?”

 

“Why the fuck are you so mean?” Sansa lost it. “Why the fuck do you even care if I went to college? Why the fuck does it even matter to you, at all, ever? You’re not my mom, or my dad, or my stupid, stubborn siblings, you’re not anyone to me, ever! You’re not my fucking family, you’re a fucking Lion! And you don’t get to comment on what I do, ever! No one can!”

 

“You’re right, girl. I don’t give a fuck about you.” He laid back down, covering his eyes with his forearm and Sansa gasped. Hurt burned through her veins, making the backs of her eyes sting with tears she fought to contain. She couldn’t stay still anymore— she began to scale back down the tree, too hastily. Her hands caught the bark, caught little branches that cut into her palms but she didn’t notice, she didn’t care, because she wanted to get away from him.

 

He had to have heard her descent, the snapping of twigs and her little cries of pain as one branch caught her temple and dragged, opening it. For a long moment he didn’t move, then he peeked out from under his arm, just barely. He clearly saw her climbing down, or rather just managing to control her falling, and swore loudly, getting up and lunging towards the tree.

 

She was sure that she wasn’t going to need him, but at the last second, her foot did slip, and the loss of it meant all her weight was transferred to her shoulder sockets, which were not prepared for the blow. With a cry, she had to let go, the flash of pain in her shoulders overwhelming her and for the briefest of moments while she fell, she remembered.

 

Remembered the last time she’d fallen from a tree, when her wrist had snapped, loudly and audibly. Arya’s worried face swimming over her’s. The rough pain, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. The first, and perhaps, only time that she’d seen bright, unshed tears in her stoic sister’s eyes, asking her if she was ok, and if she could stay still, she was going to get mom, and her wrist, _don’t look_ , just—

 

But the time there was no snap, no pain, no Arya, no blood, no anything except two large arms, warm leather, a sturdy chest, and two very angry, shining grey eyes looking down at her. She was held in Sandor’s arms, securely, and for a second, both of them were silent, stunned that he’d managed to reach her in time. Then they both burst in a rage.

 

“Let me go—“

 

“The fuck were you thinking—”

 

“Don’t _touch_ me—”

 

“I should’ve let you—”

 

“Fucking don’t--”

 

“You crazy little--”

 

“Stop, stop, put me—”

 

“—Out of your damn mind girl?”

 

“You don’t care!” That one shut him up, perhaps because it was accompanied with her closed fist hitting his chest. For a second, he was surprised, looking down at her, and that look spurred her on further, until she was pounding on his chest, sobbing and screaming at him, that he didn’t care, that he was the worst, that she’d rather die than go back with him, that she hated him.

 

“Sansa…”

 

“You don’t fucking care! You don’t fucking care at all about me!”

 

“I…”

 

“You’re a fucking monster! A fucking monster! How can you do this?”

 

“Sansa.”

 

“Fuck you! Fuck you! I hate you! Fuck you!”

 

“I know.”

 

“A fucking monster! A fucking monster! You’re as bad as him! Fucking as bad as the rest of this! Fuck you, you fucking fuck!”

 

He stood and endured it, holding her to his chest, absolutely still. He waited until all the tears she’d held in for the weeks she’d been Joffrey’s hostage were done and she was nothing but a shivering, gasping shell. Then, with grace she knew he had but never showed, he set her down on her own two feet and swiped a thumb to disrupt the tear tracks.

 

 _“Enough.”_ Even the word was tender. It was not meant to be mean or malicious like he sometimes was. It was not a barking order or said with a stern glare. It was quiet, and compassionate. It was understanding, and after she dragged a ragged breath into her burning lungs, he let her go, careful to make sure that she wasn’t hurt from her near fall.

 

She spun away from him, still crying furious tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I have gotten so many reviews that love the interactions between these two and I just wanna take a hot second to say THANK YOU because I promise this story has action and stuff but these two deserve a lifetime of talking stuff out and i'm sure a pawn in the giving of that to them. So here's a promise that (soon!) we will get into true biker gang action, but thank you for all the love and support beforehand. 
> 
> Reviews are my sustainment. 
> 
> (ps 10 points if you name that scottish movie)


	9. Heart of my Own, Basia Bulat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, honestly, seriously, let me say once again, that I seriously flipping adore everyone who reads this story. Thank you for allowing me to share this with you all. It it easily the best part of my day when I see a review come in. 
> 
> That being said, please don't kill me for this chapter. It picks up immediately where the other left off, if that's not apparent. I love you all!!!

Well, fuck. Now he was deep into it. He didn’t even bother to deny it, not anymore. What was the point of lying to himself? He cared for her. He cared for her like he’d cared for Aileana, for his sweet little sister. That was all. She reminded him of the sweet little thing his sister had once been, and that was why he’d ran beneath the tree, arms outstretched, heart in throat, to catch her. Prevent her from falling and breaking. It seemed his little bird’s wings didn’t quite work.

 

Now she was sitting against the tree, eyes closed, head on her knees, arms wrapped around them. She looked so fucking young when she did that, that he felt a queer squeeze in his chest. She’d been raging seconds ago, and now she had calmed into this, this thing. He wasn’t even sure what it was, only that he was quite sure she was breaking into pieces in front of him, and he hadn’t a clue how to stop it.

 

So he sat, uselessly, watching her, opening his mouth every couple seconds to say something. Then he realized that he had nothing to say that was ever going to make her feel better, and quietly shut it again. He wanted to tell her why he was so mad about the college thing, except he hadn’t a clue as to how come every time he was stupid enough to bring it up, his chest constricted with anger.

 

“Thank you for catching me.” Her voice was soft, but there wasn’t a trace of the anger she’d obviously felt before, so he grunted in response. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper.”

 

“Are you ever not so damn polite?” He demanded suddenly and she looked at him with furrowed eyebrows, clearly confused as to what he meant. “With all your thank yous and I’m sorry-- Do you ever just tell someone to go fuck themselves over a stump?”

 

“Not in so many words.” She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I guess I was always taught to be extra polite, because that was expected of me.”

 

“I’m holding you fucking hostage, and you say please and thank you.” He groaned, sitting back and she was watching him with a wrinkled nose.

 

“Fine. Go fuck yourself over a stump, Sandor Clegane.” The way she said it, primly, without a hint of malice, made his mouth draw up in a lopsided smile. “One of us has to apologize, and I don’t think you even know how to. That leaves it up to me.”

 

“Well,” He tried to come up with an argument and when he was unable, sighed and acknowledged her point. Sansa’s mouth twitched at that.

 

“I get sensitive around the topic of college.” She told him and he watched her in disbelief. Was she really going to apologize to him, for his outburst, for his awful words? “It’s not something girls like me typically do, you know? No one really wanted me off at college, so far away from the club. But I wanted to go, and I wasn’t going to take no for an answer, not even from my own family. So I made it work, and I got my degree. But now I have all this debt, and I’m completely clueless about what the hell I want to do, and I felt like such a failure. And my dad, he was the only one who didn’t judge me for the whole thing, you know? And when I lost him, it was like everyone was attacking me for my choice.”

 

“Why?” He tried to forget he was doing just that.

 

“Not sure.” Sansa shrugged, looking at her hands. They were rough and torn up from her climbing. “But Bran’s going to go to college too, probably, so maybe it’s best I cleared the path.”

 

“And Rickon?” He asked, desperate to keep her talking, so that he didn’t dwell on his own thoughts. For some reason, that made Sansa snort with laughter.

 

“Sorry--” She correctly interpreted the look of confusion he gave her. “It’s just… Have you ever read Lord of the Flies?”

 

“Sounds like a bloody horror book.” He muttered, annoyed at another reminder of much much smarter she was than him; how much more unattainable. They were separated not by feet or miles but by worlds. Her mouth was moved up into a genuine smile now.  

 

“Basically. But Rickon can be a little… Unruly.” Sansa always smiled brightest when she spoke of her family. “He once created a bobbytrap in the yard that caught the club’s sergeant at arms and a prospect. Held them in a net for almost half an hour. Dad wasn’t very pleased, but he sure as hell was impressed. Rickon was seven years old. He’s a wild child.”

 

“Really?” He was a little surprised to picture that. He could never picture anyone who shared blood with Sansa to be ill-behaved. Sansa laughed this time, a true laugh, and kept talking.

 

“Oh, yeah. Then there was the time he tried to raise a nest of squirrels under his bed, and the three days he hid in the woods-- we all thought he’d died, mom was a nervous wreck, but he was totally fine, so he basically is like a little warrior survivalist hunter hybrid. We had to get him a special tutor, because he bit the last one.” She informed him and he frowned.

 

“Bit?”

 

“Well, technically, Shaggydog bit him. But it’s widely believed it was on Rickon’s orders.” Her eyes sparkled. “Osha is the only one who’s ever been able to control him, even a little bit. He’s either going to kill us all one day, or save the world.”

 

“Well.” He tried to imagine what that would be like, having a younger sibling like that. His sister had been goodness personified and she would’ve never once thought about the idea of biting anyone. He hadn’t been around enough to try to teach her the things he knew, and then before he learned anything of value, she was gone. Rickon sounded a little bit more like him as a lad.

 

“He’s special like that.” Sansa smiled and reached down, plucking blades of grass and twisting them in her fingers slowly.

 

“Sounds like it.” He muttered. “What else?”

 

“What else does Rickon do?” Sansa raised an eyebrow.

 

“Aye.”

 

“Lots of things. He blows things up. He makes things, I think. It’s yet to be proven. He can throw axes and knives and shoot a bow. You know, all the things that normal preteen boys should be learning.” She laughed slightly. “But dad always gave us the space to do that kind of stuff. Rickon just turned out to be a little more wild than any of my brothers.”

 

“Like Bran?” He asked quietly and Sansa began to weave the blades of grass together, her nimble fingers going back and forth.

 

“Yeah, but Bran is interesting in a different way. He was really quiet, even as a baby. He climbed, all the time, as a kid. We’d find him up a tree or on a roof, or in the rafters. But once he started having seizures he had to stop. So then he started reading and writing and blogging. He’s got the weirdest taste in things, almost weirder than Jon and Arya, but he’s so smart it’s unbelievable.” Sansa destroyed the weaving with ease.

 

“Oh.” He watched her, quiet and thoughtful, unsure of what else he could say. Sansa continued to look down at the grass, before raising her eyes up to his. He was struck again, for the hundredth time, at how pretty she was. With her big aquamarine eyes and pursed lips, something inside him tightened.He didn’t know what the hell this feeling was, so he grunted and rolled away.

 

“What?” Sansa eyed him.

 

“We should go.” He muttered.

 

“No.” Sansa’s chin jutted out. “No, I have this one day where no one is going to tell me mean things and make me clean up weird shit and endure awful humans. Don’t take me back. Let me stay here. Please. Just a little bit longer. Please.”

 

“Sansa.” He sighed heavily and she sat stubbornly on the ground, refusing to move. “What are we going to do then, sit here all day?”

 

“I don’t care.” She stated, lying back and looking at the sky. “I don’t care at all. I’d do anything just to stay here, away from everything and everyone and the whole damn world.”

 

“Fine.” He gave in, because he knew he would, because he always did. She was like a damn addiction, and he was never going to get enough of a fix. “Fine, we’ll stay.”

 

“Thank you.” She said quietly and he wanted to yell at her for her kind words but he just sat there, wondering why he felt like he was seething with anger at her for everything she did, even though she was nothing but kind and forgiving with him. She was more than he could ever hope to deserve, and he wondered if that was why he felt lead in his stomach.

 

It wasn’t the worst of places to stay for the day, even he had to admit that. The sun was warm, and the light filtered down in a pleasant sort of way. He laid back and closed his eyes, trying to relax. After a few minutes, he vaguely heard Sansa moving next to him and when he opened his eyes to peek at what she was doing, he found her doing a headstand.

 

He was mildly impressed at it, watching the way she balanced on her head and forearms, carefully extending her legs skyward. He got a sudden urge to topple her over, and he stretched one foot out. With a slight tap to her hip, she gasped and collapsed. She came up glaring, hair messy, grass in it, a streak of dirt on her forehead, so angry he couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

 

He laughed so hard he had to roll onto his back and hold his stomach, laughing harder than he ever remembered doing. She stared at him, a little bewildered, before narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms. For some reason, it only made her seem younger, and made him laugh harder. She just watched him without saying a word, until finally he took a deep breath and calmed himself.

 

“Fuck.”

 

“What was so funny?” She demanded, nearly setting him off again. “How can you go from yelling at me to laughing at me?”

 

“That was fucking funny.” He protested.

 

“It was not!” She huffed and he laughed harder.

 

“Oh, not be a bad fucking sport, little bird.” He encouraged her and Sansa tilted her head slightly, while he tried to get control of himself.

 

“Well, that was not how I anticipated that going.” Sansa remarked and he fell quiet, glancing at her, not understanding.

 

“What?”

 

“The first time I made you laugh.” Sansa scooted a safe distance away from him and tried to get back into a headstand.

 

“You thought about making me laugh?” He stared at her, baffled.

 

“Yeah, but I thought it would be because I said something funny or made a witty comment, not because you so very rudely kicked me over!” Her voice was a little squashed as her legs rose up slowly and he was glad she couldn’t see his face, because he was sure he looked a little alarmed. He stared outright as she resumed her perfect headstand, legs skyward and head safely cradled between her arms.  

 

Why the hell had she been thinking about making him laugh? Had she been actively trying to make him laugh? When did that happen? Had he ever laughed at him before now? Surely he’d laughed at some point in front of her, and not in a sarcastic, mean way. She was funny, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, and surely she’d caught the way he ducked his head to hide the smiles.

 

“Are you hungry?” He questioned suddenly. She stayed in the headstand with nothing more than a slight waver but answered,

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Mexican food?”

 

“Can we get ice cream after?”

 

“No ice cream.”

 

She kicked back down from the headstand, making a face at him. “Spoilsport.”

 

“Let’s fucking go.” He ordered, standing. She’d wind up with her ice cream, he was sure, but he could be tough for a bit longer.

 

“Alright, c’mon.” Breathless and red in the face, she bumped his shoulder with her own as they headed out of the meadow.

 

“Ah, fuck.” He reached up and plucked a couple stray branches from her hair, giving her a look. “What the hell are you then?”

 

“Forest nymph.” Sansa stated, as though it should be obvious. She gave a dramatic gesture, sweeping her arms wide and tossing her hair back. He had to admit, in the wild, with her hair and the dirt that streaked her pale skin, she made quite the picture.

 

“Alright, fucking enough.” He ordered, pushing her towards the bike and she went, laughing. “A forest nymph, you fucking crazy bird.”

 

Once they had made their way back into town he found a taco truck in some parking lot and Sansa scolded him under her breath and warned him that they were going to die of food poisoning. However, she smiled prettily when she ordered her chicken tacos and he grudgingly bought her a churro, which she happily devoured first, tacos forgotten.

 

“That was dessert.” He reminded her and she shrugged, unbothered.

 

“You should always eat dessert first, then you know you have room for it.” She stated wisely and he snorted, but ate his taco in silence. Sansa sat next to him, legs crossed, eating her tacos, making a small noise of discontent when some salsa fell from the end of her shell, landing on her leg. She looked around for the napkins he’d neglected to get before sighing.

 

He watched, in a sort of trance, as she licked her finger and then swiped at her inner thigh, her finger trailing over her skin as she cleaned off the salsa. He wondered what it would be like trace that same path with his own tongue and startled himself when he realized his mouth was actually watering. He devoured the rest of his tacos without looking at her.

 

“Now what?” He grunted, when they were both done and Sansa was looking longingly at the girl with a churro across the parking lot.

 

“Can I have another?”

 

“No.”

 

“You’re always telling me I’m too skinny, so why not feed me sugar and shit?” She gave him a baleful gaze and after a long moment, he reluctantly handed her a few dollars. She beamed and dashed to grab another. He watched her, as she ordered one and wandered back to him, happily taking a large bite. After a second she ripped it in half and offered it to him.

 

“I don’t need it.” He said flatly and she rolled her eyes.

 

“What, like it’s going to ruin your 16 pack?” She playfully smacked his stomach. The contact, even as playful and innocent as it was, still made him clench his fists when his gut constricted in want. “Forgive me if I didn’t assume you subsisted on green juice and kale salads.”

 

“I could.” He frowned at her.

 

“Your idea of making me breakfast is to nuke a frozen burrito for a couple minutes and then downing it with a shot of Jack.” She raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“I don’t drink fucking Jack for breakfast.” He protested, knowing he had a weak argument here and it was only going to get weaker.

 

“Yeah, I forgot. You’re Scottish, aren’t you?” She took another bite of her churro, chewing. “It’s Johnnie Walker then, right?”

 

“You fucking talking shit?” He gave her a long look and she simply shrugged.

 

“So what if I am? What are you going to do to me, Clegane?” Her eyes twinkled as she look up at him, and he opened his mouth before snapping it shut again.

 

_Fuck._

 

How was it so easy for him, to sit here with her and talk, and not have any worries? Why did she make him feel so at ease with everything? Why did she stay, why didn’t she go running through the streets away from him screaming at the top of her lungs? He knew she would. He knew that if she had the chance, she would cut and run as fast as she could, away from him, away from everything here. He wanted to remind himself that this was all fake, it was all an illusion.

 

But then she smiled up at him, a bit of cinnamon and sugar at the corner of her mouth, and he decided to let one day pass where he faked it.

 

“You know what dogs do to wolves.” He wasn’t even sure if the words were a promise or a threat. Sansa took it as neither, instead grinning.

 

“They buy them churros and ice cream.” She reminded him.

 

“Don’t get fucking use to it.” He warned her.

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t fucking dare.” Sansa promised him. “It’s a slippery slope though. First you’re buying me milkshakes and churros, and next thing you know, you’re going to be getting me something really crazy, like fried ice cream or malts.”

 

“Don’t get greedy.” He muttered and Sansa threw her head back laughing, finishing off the churro and throwing the wrapping in the garbage. Then she watched the people in the parking lot come and go with him. Almost no one spared a glance for the pair of them, but even those that did put their heads down and quickly went about their business.

 

“So.” Sansa stated and he glanced at her.

 

“No more fucking churros.”

 

“Fine.” Sansa agreed easily. “But we got ice cream. We got churros. Well, I got ice cream and churros. So what do you want to do?”

 

“It’s your freedom.” He reminded and the look Sansa gave him was one of both understanding and something else he didn’t know.

 

“It’s yours too. Whatever is mine here is tied to you. So this day belongs to you as much as me. What do you want to do with it?" She asked him.

 

“You really want to know?” He reached for his smokes, amused at the way that she shifted herself to be out of the cloud.

 

“I do.” She stated and he lit up, giving her a little grin of challenge. Sansa answered back with a bright one of her own.

 

The rest of the day they spent riding. He was careful not to stray too far from the boundaries of Joffrey’s influence, but it wasn’t hard when he ran most of the south. Sansa’s arms were wrapped around him tightly, and she laughed when he took tight turns. It was a dizzying feeling, her laughter in his ear and her arms around his waist, her chest pressed into his back. He couldn’t stop the insidious thoughts from creeping into his mind.

 

What did they look like to other people? Did they look like a couple? Did she look like his happy girlfriend, carefree on the back on his bike? If he kept driving, driving and driving, north, always north, what would happen then? What would they become? What could he do? Why did he even care that she was happy right now in this moment, and why did he want to make sure she stayed that way?

 

He pushed the bike faster, trying to think of all his worst memories to push her out. His skin, burning. Gregor’s vicious laughter, and the quiet slamming of the door as his father left, refusing to acknowledge what had happened. He thought of his mother and the protective way she’d curled around his younger sister, but not him. Never him. He’d never been protected, and for all that, he was still here and she wasn’t, because he’d failed to do what big brother’s should do and--

 

Suddenly he was gasping, unable to get air into his lungs and he abruptly pulled to the side of the road. He parked the bike and got off it, striding away. Sansa yelped when he nearly tipped it, but he ignored her. This hadn’t happened, hadn’t happened in years, he’d almost forgotten how to control it, but he was trying to breathe, trying to calm himself down. Look up at the sky, remember that he’s free, look down at the earth to remember that he’s here, look---

 

“Sandor.”

 

Sansa was directly in front of him and before he could explain himself or bellow at her to leave him alone, he wasn’t sure which was going to happen, she reached up and took his face in her hands. He was startled to feel the contact on his scars, but more so when she gently wrapped her arms around his neck and suddenly pulled him into a tight hug.

 

For a moment he hovered, unsure of what the hell to do with her thin body hanging off of his. Then he couldn’t handle it any longer and suddenly held her close, burying his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder. She smelled sweet, and her skin was warm from the sun. He was vaguely aware of her stroking his back and his shoulders, speaking gently to him. It took all his concentration to hear what she was saying.

 

“I wrote on these walls a simple charm, to keep the wounds at bay. Gave of a heart the strength of my arms to hold you close and safe...”

 

“What,” He rasped, trying to get control of himself. “Is that?”

 

“A song. My mom use to sing it a lot. But my voice is shit. Sorry.” She gave him an apology and he had half a mind to yell at her for it. He was the one having a panic attack, the one who’d very nearly killed them and laid his bike down. But she was comforting him, and he kept his mouth firmly shut. She fit into his arms like she’d always been there, meant for him.

 

Neither of them tried to move from their position and she kept softly stroking his hair, and he clung to her like a dying man. She was like a balm and he didn’t know what the hell life was like before he was here, with her. How the hell he’d ever done this before. She was still whispering kind and quiet words to him, and his heart rate began to slow, until he felt like he could breathe again.

 

“You called me Sandor.” He hated how weak his voice was, after these moments, how he felt like his whole body was trembling. It was weakness, pure and simple. He hated how vulnerable she made him, and for the fact that he still hadn’t let her go. That he didn’t want to let her go. He wanted to keep her right there. Her safe with him, and him safe with her.  

 

“That’s your name.” She was tracing patterns on his right shoulder. He didn’t even realize he’d buried his scarred side into her neck, but she didn’t seem to care in the slightest.

 

“You never called me that.”

 

“You need it now.”

 

He stood up and looked back at her, trying to comprehend what was happening. She was looking up at him, wide eyed, and he didn’t detect a hint of pity or disgust in the oceans of blue. He had no idea what was there, except that her hand had reached up and was touching his scarred cheek. He couldn’t help but pull away in discomfort, and her hand instantly dropped.

 

“I don’t need anything.” He muttered, ashamed of showing her weakness. She let him go and he stepped away from her, taking a deep breath. He hadn’t had a breakdown in years, not since the last time he’d been deployed and the world around him went up into flames. Why did she inspire it in him? How was she as scary as the memory of his worst moment? Was she so terrifying?

 

“I know you don’t.” She said simply and he hated her for her politeness and her poise, for her smarts and sophistication, for the fact that she was utterly and irrevocably unattainable to a fucker like him. He was not handsome or smart or kind. He could hear the jeers of men, laughing at the fact that no girl in the pub would even look at him, much less go home with him.

 

But here was Sansa, standing in front of him, close enough to touch, and gazing steadily at him with clear blue eyes that put the sky around them to shame. She was there, with him, and she’d reached out to comfort him. It would do nothing for her, yet she’d done it all the same. She wasn’t scared of his scars or his temper, nor of this side of him she’d been forced to see.

 

“We need to go.” He said gruffly, pushing past her towards his bike. He didn’t want to muse on these thoughts anymore, he didn’t want to think on why she showed him any pity or understand beyond what was expected from a captive.

 

“Wait. Sandor, wait, I...” Sansa called and he stopped, rounding on her with an almighty fury. She clearly saw it, because she took a step back with mild alarm, but then plunged on regardless. “I’m here to talk, you know, if you ever--”

 

“Talk?” He said it with a sneer, determined to mock her. “You think I want to talk to you? Of all people? Why the hell would I ever talk to you? You’re just Joffrey’s bitch, his little slut. Do you think I don’t know how you don’t give a fuck about me? Using me to get away? You’re never going to get away, never. You’re stuck in this fucking cage, you damned little bird!”

 

There. He’d done it then. She was recoiling, a look of pure shock and hurt crossing her face. She wouldn’t try to reach out to him anymore. She couldn’t hurt him that way. He growled and turned back to the bike, assuming that she would follow. She had to, didn’t she? She had to follow the monster, which was what he was. A monster of a man, a horrible, sorry excuse for one.

 

Better she saw him this way and stopped tempting him with her sweet and kind nature. With her words that were like a poisoned wine, one that he’d drunk from and now it was here to kill him slowly. He’d never have her beyond guarding her like a fucking prize, and even allowing himself to pretend elsewise would only make it hurt worse when the inevitable came, and she left him.

 

He sat on the bike and she got on behind him. This time, her arms didn’t reach out the ensnare him around the waist. They stayed on her thighs and she shook slightly. He gritted his teeth and roared the bike back onto the road, feeling her tense to stay on. He didn’t care, he told himself viciously. He didn’t care at all what she thought of him, or how she felt about him. None of that mattered, he told himself again and again.

 

It didn’t matter that his chest constricted when he felt her trembling behind him. It didn’t matter that his fists clenched on the handlebars when he imagined her sitting behind him, tears on her pale, smooth cheeks. It didn’t matter how heavy his heart sat with the idea that he had caused her to cry those tears. It didn’t matter that Joffrey and Cersei couldn’t make her cry, but he could. It didn’t matter that he wanted to turn around and drive in the opposite direction, without stopping until he got her to safety.

 

All that mattered was getting away from her. He needed space. He needed to clear his damn head from her stupid, poisonous words. The memories that were worse than cancer, insidiously reminding him of the time they’d slept together, how her little hand had rested over his heart. He closed his eyes and saw her smiles. He felt her arms around him, heard her laughter, smelled her sweet skin…

 

No. This way was better. If she hated him, she couldn’t hurt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you want to yell at me, reviews are a wonderful place to do so :)
> 
> Even if you're not yelling, let me know what you like, what made you smile or frown. It makes sitting down to write oh so much easier. 
> 
> Blessings!!!


	10. I Have Questions, Camilla Cabello

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I JUST HAVE TO SAY I AM SO SORRY FOR ALL THE ANGER IN THE LAST CHAPTER BUT THE RESPONSES -- HOO BOY AM I ONE HAPPY CAMPER
> 
> SO AS THANKS
> 
> THE TRULY GREATEST SANSA CHAPTER!
> 
> (at least to me. disclaimer opinions may vary, author is not liable for any tears or shouting, except for in written review form.)

Sansa wanted to rage. She wanted to smash things, and she knew her hands were trembling with her very ill-suppressed hatred. She closed her eyes for a second and contenting herself with picturing that she was hurling something at Littlefinger’s head, and his brains exploding on the wall behind him. Her fantasy would have to content her for now, because in reality there was nothing she could do. So she kept scrubbing the floor clean of various bodily fluids and kept picturing what that smug smile of his would look like if she stuck a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

 

He kept talking, in his condescending, slimy voice, at turns trying to seduce her and then ridiculing her when she refused to bow to his whims. He was worse than Joffrey and Cersei, who were at least upfront about their utter hatred for her. He was worse than Toad and the other bikers, who looked at her with unchecked lust. Littlefinger acted like she would choose him one day, and did everything he could to win her favor, from gifts and promises of staying Joffrey’s hand. She knew it to be lies. Only one person had ever stopped Joffrey, and he was currently not even looking at her. Sandor. 

 

Sansa almost growled as she returned to the root of her anger. It had been well over a week since the incident on the side of the road. She didn’t know what else to call it; incident seemed hardly appropriate but that was what it was. She’d only been trying to comfort him, she tried to rationalize. She knew he was hurting, from whatever it was that pained him so, and she had tried to make it better. It was only fair, since he’d done the same so often for her. It was only fair, wasn’t it?

 

Then he’d been viciously cruel. That had stung, in and of itself. But she was ready to forgive him a few days later, once she’d gotten over some of her annoyance that he’d ruined such a perfect day. Except he hardly guarded her anymore. He left her to the women most mornings and then she was at Cersei’s mercy. If she was in a nasty mood, she’d keep Sansa to torture personally. And if she was in a benevolent mood, she’d let Littlefinger take Sansa to the studio.

 

Even here at the porn studio she was watched by at least person other than Littelfinger. The girls, jealous and unknowingly helping her, kept him well distracted to Sansa’s relief. But now at night, Sandor didn’t even sleep in her room. He slept outside, or Bronn or Jaime would. She knew, at least, that he still cared some that she stayed safe. Bronn and Jamie were the least likely to try anything awful, and she knew it.

 

But still, his abrupt rejection of whatever they were still stung. She tried to push it away, and focus on the fact that she needed to escape. Robb was winning more battles than any of them had expected, and more and more rival clubs were turning their alliance north. It put Joffrey in a wildly unpredictable mood, always violent, and Sansa feared that if her brother ever made it south to rescue her, she might not live to see his victory.

 

So she tried to think of other ways out. How she would escape the clubhouse, how she’d evade the police and Joffrey’s men. It seemed like an insurmountable task. It would take hours to ride north, and she’d have to steal cars and food and clothes. She wasn’t sure how the hell someone did something like that. Suddenly, she had a piercing desire for Arya. Her wild little outlaw of a younger sister would know exactly what to do.

 

But Arya was not here, and she was not with her sister. She was stuck in a porn studio, covered in all manner of disgusting liquids, with half baked ideas of escape in her head. Her anger reared its fiery head once more and she scrubbed even more viciously when she heard the soft, measured steps that alerted her to the fact that Littlefinger was coming. She froze for a single moment.

 

“Sansa, darling,” He practically purred and she went rigid. “What are you doing dirtying those pretty little hands of yours?” She stayed silent. It was easier to stay silent. If she was quiet, she could pretend that all of this was a bad dream happening to someone else.

 

“Working.” She said quietly, without raising to his eyes. She knew how this was going to play out. She just had to say the right words, simple as that. Then he would be forced away by some pornstar’s emergency. It was yet another of her waiting games, but this one was her least favorite of them all. She hated playing it with him. She could practically predict his words back to her.

 

“You shouldn’t be working, not a pretty girl like yourself. At least, not like this.” His tone made her want to shiver, but she was past that now. Knew better now.

 

“This is what Cersei and Joffrey need me to do.” She went back to scrubbing fiercely. “I’m just a stupid, dumb, spoiled brat who never learned how to do anything for myself, ever. They’re teaching me to be better and I’m trying to learn, but I’m so stupid.”

 

“Sansa,” His voice was soft, but she would never mistake it for caring. He knelt down next to her and brushed her hair off her neck. That did cause her to shiver and she had to lean away from his touch, but covered it by grabbing for her bucket of water.

 

“Sorry, I need to work.” She said firmly, hoping he would leave her alone.

 

“You wouldn’t have to.” He was still too close, intruding on her space. It made her skin crawl and she wished with everything in her that she would sprout wings and fly far away. “Think, think of what a star you would be. If you’d go on camera, why, you’d make double what all the other girls in here do. You’d be a star, Sansa, a bright little star, for all the world to see…”

_No, you spineless man with a tiny penis,_ she thought fiercely to herself. She wasn’t a fucking porn star, she wasn’t a fucking stupid whore, and she wasn’t a fucking bird. She was a wolf and she would rip them apart one by one soon enough.

 

“Petyr…” A whining voice called and a dark haired girl with a nose ring and tattoos bounded into view, utterly naked. He looked up at her in annoyance. “C’mon, they want you to look at this shot. Molly says she likes it better wide screen, but it makes her look like a fat cow, and--” With a disgusted grunt, he pushed himself up and left one lingering look at Sansa before disappearing.

 

She sighed and leaned back, trying to relax her tense muscles. Everything hurt, from her head to her toes. She was always guarded, always on edge, always exhausted, and it was taking its toll. She longed for a hot bath, back home in the big clawfoot tub in her parent’s bathroom that she’d always loved so much. She longed for Winterfell, period, for her family. But there was no time for that. She scrubbed more fiercely at a spot that remained stubbornly brown, and tried to forget everything.

 

Bronn was her escort home that night, since Littlefinger was occupied with editing. Bronn was a good one, and Sansa didn’t hate him. After Littlefinger, he was a welcome sight. When she walked out and tried to muster up a polite little smile for him, least he report back to Joffrey of her bad behavior and attitude like Toad once had, he frowned and shook his head.

 

“Don’t do that, Red.” He ordered and she stopped, unsure of what beratement she was going to receive now. “I know you’re fucking miserable. You should be.”

 

“It’s not that bad,” She began to straighten up, but he waved a hand.

 

“Yes, it is, and save that shit for someone who cares. I don’t give a fuck about what Joffrey might do to me. That little prick doesn’t scare me.” He gave her a roguish grin and Sansa stopped, cocking her head and staring at him in confusion.

 

“But then why…” She trailed off. All of Robb’s men, who had been her father’s, had chosen him as a leader because they thought him the best. Because they believed in his leadership. Because he was a good man. That was what the club was all about, the brotherhood. Willing to die for each other, and the cause. She didn’t understand why anyone would live this life hating their president.

 

“Money.” Bronn grinned and rubbed his fingers together. “You’re not stupid, Red, no matter how many times Joffrey and Cersei tell you that you are. You’re an outlaw, same as me, you’ve just got a little better blood and upbringing than I do. You know there’s good money in cash and drugs. I was in the service with Jaime. He told me that I could make more here than anywhere else. Joffrey is a figurehead, that’s all, and it keeps him and Cersei happy. But the rest of us get enough cash to buy a small castle.”

 

“Is that what you’re going to do one day then?” Sansa asked him suspiciously and he grinned, laughing outright at that.

 

“Yeah, it is. Find me a pretty little pornstar wife, get us a nice castle, and ride out my days in the lap of luxury.” He painted the picture with his hands and Sansa felt a true smile making her lips twitch upwards. She did like Bronn, truly.

 

“Joffrey won’t ever let you leave though.” She reminded him on a daring whim. The club was for life. There was no backing out, not when he would have to face Joffrey himself. Even if Joffrey let him leave, he’d have created so many enemies with Joffrey’s help that no matter where he went, a former lion would never be left alone. It was an unspoken rule.

 

“Wouldn’t he?” Bronn never once lost his carefree tone, his swagger and his handsome, knowing smirk. “Suppose he’ll have to be alive for that, and let me tell you something, pretty little Sansa Stark. Stupid men make stupid mistakes.”

 

 _They might_ , she thought as she swung herself onto Bronn’s bike and he pulled away from the warehouse. _But the worst ones always came back._

 

She was left in peace long enough after her afternoon to get showered and changed, but then Jaime appeared at her door, a small, apologetic smile on his face. She’d just finished getting ready for the night with another skin tight dress and too high heels. She stared at the golden haired man evenly, and after a moment he heaved a great sigh and offered her his hand.

 

“He’s requesting you.” He said quietly and Sansa pulled on the high heels, taking Jaime’s hand to steady herself on them.

 

“Requesting.” She couldn’t help the note of bitterness from slipping in as they went for the stairs. “I’m sure that was the exact tone he had.”

 

“Well, no.” Jaime’s mouth trembled as he fought to contain a smile. “But he seems to be in an alright mood for once, actually.”

 

Sansa suddenly went tense, pausing, one foot hovering over the stairs. Jaime took a couple steps before realizing she wasn’t following him. When he stopped and turned back to look up at her, she thought about pushing him aside and throwing herself down the stairs. Because the only reason that Joffrey could be happy would be if he had done something against her brother.

 

“Who?” She whispered through numb lips. “Who was it?”

 

“Ah.” His face fell, at least a little, and if she hadn’t been so anxious, she might have felt a tiny bit of affection there for him. He was trying to protect her at least from whatever news Joffrey was going to gloat and lord over her head. “Sansa...”

 

“Who?” She repeated, gripping the banister for support to keep her upright on trembling legs. “Please, tell me who, Jaime.”

 

“Your uncle.” Jaime shifted uncomfortably and gave her a pleading look. “Just come downstairs, please, and get it over with.”

 

“Uncle?” For a wild moment, she thought of Benjen, the nomad. Was Jon with him? Had they both been taken? What had Joffrey done? Was he going to bring them here and finally make good on his promise? Defile her, kill them, all of her nightmares?

 

“Yes, Edmure Tully.” Jaime said and she nearly went limp with relief. Her mother’s brother then, the uncle she’d hardly ever seen. He lived near her grandparents, and she had rarely seen him growing up. He wasn’t anyone important, and surely they wouldn’t hurt him. He wasn’t even a member of the Wolves. Unless… Then her heart sank again.

 

Because her mother would try to get to him. Family was all she had, she said to Sansa often enough. That was what Joffrey planned then. Collect pieces of their family until Robb had no choice to come try to win them back, and die in the process. She didn’t feel the steps beneath her as she walked. Jaime grabbed her arm when she was close enough.

 

“Thank you for telling me.” She said, and even to her own ears, her voice sounded distant. “I appreciate it; I know you didn’t need to.”

 

“Sansa,” Jaime began and she kept walking, pulling on the blank mask she felt she might be mastering. It was easy to pretend she didn’t care. It was easy to lie to everyone. She was getting rather good at lying, she thought. As she walked into the main room, all eyes went to her, and she saw that Sandor Clegane was not there. That was for the best. He was the only she couldn’t lie to.

 

Joffrey was smug, of course. He reminded her that he going to kill her family, kill her, do awful things to her. She half believed he could and would. But she kept a blank expression on her face and went to get beers when she was told. She didn’t even flinch at the hands that grabbed her now. All of it was too familiar, and she knew without the presence of the large man hovering behind her, it was useless to fight.

 

Suddenly, a hand was low on her ass, fingers creeping between her legs. She jumped; even for her recent gropings, that was too far, and turned around, startled. Littlefinger was smiling at her, reclining on the couch. She automatically took a step back, bringing herself just outside his grasp. He smiled slowly at her over the top of his whiskey, wagging a finger at her, eyes glazed over.

 

“Now, now, now pretty girl…” His words drug out just a second too long, slurring just enough that she knew he’d been drinking heavily. The girls that were partially draped over him glared daggers at her, but she had no way of telling them that if she could up and run, she would. They couldn’t know that she hated every second of his attention. All they saw was a girl too uppity for them, and the men that wanted her instead of them. She didn’t like it, but she understood it.

 

“Can I get you another beer?” She offered them, trying hard for sweetness. “Another round of shots, or some drinks? Whatever you’re drinking.” He laughed at that and she waited, sure that he would turn Joffrey on her if she left him before he’d released her.

 

“No.” He lurched forward and only very nearly stopped himself from displacing one of the girls. She made a little noise of protest and he slapped her knee. The girl fell quiet, and Sansa felt sick. “I want Sansa. Come here girl, come sit down on my lap.”

 

“I have to get beers.” She wanted to take another step away from him, but behind her was the crush of a growing party, people here to celebrate Joffrey’s victory over her family. The swell of people only served to press her closer still to Littlefinger. She wondered how long it would take for Joffrey to call for her again, leading her to a fresh round of humiliation.

 

“No, you don’t.” Littlefinger tried to coax her closer.

 

“Yes, I do.” She looked around once, seeing if there was anyone, anyone at all who might be able to come to her rescue. “Joffrey will--”

 

“He won’t do anything.” Littlefinger waved a hand. “Not if you’re with me. Trust me Sansa, I could give you it all. All of it, from me…” He trailed off, clearly thinking he had painted an appealing picture for her. Instead, Sansa felt like she was going to faint, and pressed against the back of a large man.

 

“I need to go.” She repeated. “I have to get beers.”

 

“Come with me.” Littlefinger stood and reached a hand out for her. She sucked in a breath and tried to use the serving tray as a shield, but it couldn’t deflect his hands, fast as they were. In the space it took her to draw a breath, she was suddenly ensnared in him, and was pressed against the wall, his breath hot and heavy on her neck as he ran his hands up and down her sides.

 

She froze. She had no idea what to do. She was sure that if Joffrey saw, he would beat her for allowing Littlefinger to ruin her for him. But she was also sure that if she cried out and pushed him off her, Joffrey would beat her for displeasing his men and causing a fuss. So she was silent, utterly silent, as his hands found the gaps between her clothes and started to tug. His breath smelled of whiskey and something else unsavory and she wanted to cry and pound her fists in anger, but she was quiet. There was nothing she could do, except sit here and wait for, wait for what? A savior?

 

Littlefinger’s hands worked from her sides to her breasts, and then back down to her hips. She held herself as still as she could, and tried to think of other things. How soft Lady’s fur was when she laid down beside her. Rickon’s wild whooping sound, when he woke up early in the morning. The way Jon radiated heat, like he was made of fire inside. The smell of her mother’s cookies baking on Christmas morning. The sight of her father pulling up the long driveway on his bike, so strong and familiar. The taste of the lemondrops Robb always kept stashed away for her in his kutte. _Home._

 

A bellow of rage made her eyes fly open in alarm. She was just thinking of how Bran smiled so softly when he was happy. Instead, she was greeted with the snarling face of Sandor. He held Littlefinger at arm’s length and had a look of terrible anger, not directed at her but rather at Littlefinger, who was clearly stunned at the reaction. The room went silent, all attention turned to them.

 

“Hound.” Littlefinger’s voice tried for calm even as the large hand began to tighten around his throat. “What are you doing?”

 

“Don’t. Touch. Her.” Spittle was flying from Sandor’s mouth and Sansa was stunned, trying to keep it together, but she could feel herself shaking.

 

“Dog!” Joffrey’s voice rang out and the crowd parted, until the golden haired boy was staring at them, frowning just slightly.

 

“What?” Sandor ground out and Joffrey took in the scene.

 

“What are you doing?” He asked, and Sansa heard the note of rage in his voice. A thrill of fear ran through her, but not for herself. For Sandor.

 

“Guarding her.” He glared at Joffrey, still holding Littlefinger. The smaller man was gasping for breath, face slowly going red.

 

“Well don’t kill him.” Bronn said calmly, taking a sip of his beer and Sandor’s fingers loosened, just enough to allow for Littlefinger to breathe.

 

“He was touching her.” Sandor growled, and that was the only word that could so truly describe the low, gravelly tone he had. 

 

“You were?” Joffrey’s attention turned to Littlefinger. “You know that’s not allowed. She’s mine, and I don’t want anyone else playing with her before me. Did I not make myself understood?”

 

“Of course you did.” Cersei was glaring as well, but she was glaring at Sansa. “What did you do to him then, to make him want you?”

 

“Cersei.” Jaime’s voice was quiet. “Let her go to bed.”

 

“No.” Joffrey cut that plan off, raising a hand and stopping anyone who might’ve tried to step forward and help her. “Tonight was a party, and she’s ruining it.”

 

“How?” Jaime’s green eyes had a flash of anger in them. “Joffrey, let her go to bed. Let her. This doesn’t matter anymore. Be done.”

 

“Shut up.” Joffrey ordered and strode forward, until he stood before them. He tilted his head and looked between Sandor and Littlefinger, then at Sansa. She kept as still as she could, trying to disappear into the wall behind her, away from it all.

 

“Joff--” Littlefinger went to start, but Joffrey cut him off with a raised hand, his attention still on Sansa’s face. She wanted to squirm under his beedy gaze.

 

“Do you want him?” He asked her quietly and Sansa was quick to lie.

 

“No, no, not at all. I only want you.” She’d learned that it was easiest to appeal to his ego. It appeased him quickest, to think that she wanted him. “You know I want you.”

 

“Baelish.” Joffrey addressed the man, who would’ve lowered his head, except Sandor’s hand was still around his throat. “Don’t touch her. You have enough of your whores.”

 

“Yes, sir.” He said hoarsely and then Joffrey turned to Sandor.

 

“And you dog… Take her back to her rooms. I’m sick of looking at her face. Keep her out of my sight, do you hear me?”

 

“Aye.” He let Littlefinger go, and the man practically scrambled away. Then he turned and stared down all the men that were staring. “She stays with me, I won’t have any other cunt trying to earn my money!” He declared loudly, before grabbing her elbow so tightly it hurt and dragging her out of the room in silence. She went, trying to keep her yelp of pain buried down.

 

Up the stairs, down the hall, through her door, tossed onto her bed. She wrenched her arm away, because it really was starting to hurt badly, but then stared at him. His chest was heaving, and he’d locked the door. Now he was pacing back and forth, growling and muttering under his breath all the while, looking like he was about to start raging again. She wanted to say something, but she had no idea how to start. What the hell had he been doing? What the hell was that?

 

“San…” She started his name and then trailed off. That was what had set him off last time, hadn’t it? She was silent as he continued to pace viciously around the room, avoiding her eyes. She sat on the bed and waited, waited for something, she didn’t know what.

 

“Did he…” The words sounded like he had to spit them out, and he was facing away from her, looking out the windows.

 

Sansa shook her head, before remembering that he couldn’t see her, before quietly clearing her throat and saying, “No. I mean, he was… Touching… Me. But not much more.”

 

“Not much more.” His voice sounded hollow and Sansa wanted to reach out to him, but she had no idea how to do so. So she sat and fiddled with her hands, wondering what she should do here, how to keep him from pushing her out like he had before.

 

“It’s fine.” She tried. “It’s not so bad, and--”

 

“Not so bad?” He exclaimed, still not turning to face her. “Not so bad, little bird? Do you like it then, having their hands all over you?”

 

“No!” She flushed hotly, angry at the insinuation. “No, not at all! How can you-- why would you-- Think that-- I’d-- Never!”

 

“Then why did you let him?” He demanded and finally rounded on her. If she hadn’t been so angry herself, she might have been alarmed at the furious rage on his face. “Why did you let him touch you? Do you want him? Do you want to be a pornstar then?”

 

“Because,” Sansa stood on the bed so that they could be eye level. She wanted to smack him or tackle him or kick him. It was beyond frustrating and she clenched her fists to stop herself from taking a swing at him. “If I hadn’t, Joffrey would’ve done worse!”

 

“Worse?” That seemed to catch him off guard and Sansa took her opportunity.

 

“Yes,” Her voice dripped with venom. “Because I love being assaulted by slimy Littlefinger. I love when he whispers in my ear that I deserve to be fucked and screaming on camera. I love when Toad grabs my ass and I love when drooling men look at my tits. I love not being able to do a single thing to stop them because if I do, Joffrey and Cersei will remind me of my manners. Because if I try to have some form of control, I get stripped and beaten and humiliated and I LOVE IT!”

 

She ended her screaming rant breathing heavily, thankful that the thumping music below had likely drowned it all out. In front of her Sandor was gaping at her, speechless. She glared at him with all the rage she’d been bottling up since their fight on the side of the road, since he’d practically abandoned her. The rage against Joffrey and Littlefinger and Cersei and every single person in the clubhouse. Against her family, against the death of her father, against the utter unfairness of the world.

 

And then, suddenly, before she could decide if she was going to beat him or run or break down in tears, he had his arms around her and she was being crushed into his chest. Her breath whooshed out of her as he squeezed. She couldn’t even make a peep of surprise when he buried his face in her neck, and she heard him mutter a single, pained word.

 

“Fuck.”

 

Unsure of what to do when she felt like she was being bound in a straitjacket, she held still, feeling his chest rise and fall, slowly evening out. She tried to be comforting, wondering bewilderingly what had happened in the space of a few minutes that had led from her being accosted by Littlefinger to here and now, being pressed to Sandor’s chest as though he thought letting go of her meant losing her. She had no idea what any of it meant, and waited for him to release her.

 

“Sandor,” She said softly, when he hadn’t after a few moments. “Sandor.”

 

“Don’t.” The word came out broken, like he said it with something heavy pressed to his chest. She gently wiggled her arms free but then instantly grabbed his face, knowing that he would interpret this poorly; a gesture of her trying to be rid of him. She wanted him to know it wasn’t so.

 

“I’m not.” She said simply and he finally looked up at her, eyes wide. “I’m not going anywhere Sandor, I promise. I mean… I can’t.” She gave him a weak smile at that and after a moment, his face twisted into a gimance and he was pushing himself away from her once again. She was left grasping after air, for something that was now far out of her reach.

 

“Fuck.” He repeated, grabbing his head and Sansa watched him with concern. She couldn’t puzzle out if he was drunk or not, but she was getting worried. She just wanted him to come back, to explain, to help her understand why he left her, protected her, left her again.

 

“Sandor, please.” She pleaded, hand still extended.

 

“What the fuck do you want, Stark?” He demanded suddenly, glaring at her. “What the fuck do you want from me then?”

 

“Answers, to start.” Sansa stepped off the bed and carefully went after him. “To begin with, where the hell you’ve been.”

 

“Away from you.”

 

“I know that.” Sansa’s temper flamed instantly. “You left me here, alone, with them! With him! You want to know if I like it? I hate it. I hate it more than anything. I hate them all and one day I’m going to kill them all. The only person in this fucking place that I don’t hate is you and you left me!” She grabbed one massive arm and wrenched it so he turned and faced her.

 

It was an expression of anguish and if she hadn’t been so angry with him, she might’ve been worried. But she didn’t give a damn what was causing him pain, at least not right now. She wanted to know why the hell he walked away from her, why the hell he acted all the ways he did. She wanted answers from him, answers first. Then she would pity him. Then she would be concerned. But right now she was furious.

 

“You have every right to fucking hate me,” He started and Sansa gave a cry of frustration and fury, unsure of which would win.

 

“I don’t fucking hate you, you ass!”

 

“Then what?” He looked at her, a little astonished.

 

“I fucking missed you!” Sansa’s chest was heaving, but she was too deep in her rage to stop herself from being honest. “You’re the only fucking man here, the only fucking person that I give a rat’s ass about and you left me for whatever reason!”

 

“You don’t mean that.” He said quietly, trying to turn away and Sansa put all her effort into keeping him where he was, despite his flinching.

 

“I do.” She tried to get him to look at her. “If Robb came, if the wolves came, I would let them slaughter everyone in this place, until you and I were the only ones standing.”

 

“Sansa.” He looked like he was suffering from a severe concussion. “You don’t… I’m not… You wouldn’t… You aren’t…”

 

“I do.” She said stoutly. “I mean it. Everyone else can burn, can die screaming. But I won’t let you. And you walk away from me! Why?”

 

“Because of this!” He gestured frantically between the two of them. “Because of you, Sansa! Because of what you do!”

 

“What?” She demanded. “Why? What did I do to make you walk away? I didn’t once ask anything of you! I didn’t ever even try. What could I have possibly done to make you so angry at me that it took Littlefinger molesting me to get you to come back?”

 

“Don’t.” He winced again. “Don’t remind me of that cunt, or I’ll go downstairs and rip him to shreds little bird, I promise I will.”

 

“Later.” Sansa couldn’t help the thrill of pleasure that ran through her at that idea. “Later, but first you’re telling me what the hell I did.”

 

“You…” He trailed off helplessly and Sansa watched him with trepidation. She had no idea what she’d done, and she wasn’t sure how he was going to react. After a second of vibrating with tension, he relaxed and sunk down on the bed, putting his head in his hands.

 

“What?” Sansa sat down next to him, placing a hand on his thigh. “Sandor…”

 

“That.” He said sharply and she leaned back, but kept her hand on him like a tether, a cord of communion to let him know that she wasn’t going to leave. “You did that, you damned little bird, and it… It hurts. _Fuck_ , you can’t even imagine how much it hurts.”

 

“I touch you?” She looked down in confusion and he gave a sort of choked noise. “I hurt you when I touch you, I don’t…”

 

“You touch me, girl, you touch me and call me by my given name, and do you know the last time someone did that?” He gave her a harsh look that was clearly meant to scare her, but Sansa was made of stronger stuff than that. Besides, he wasn’t the slightest bit scary anymore. “I was a child, a lad with not yet sixteen years under my belt. Don’t think I’d had my first cigarette or woman yet. I was a child!”

 

“Sandor.” Sansa’s fingers dug into the thick muscle of his thigh. “Who was the last one?” She remembered his story, from all those nights ago. The little hints that he’d given her. A horrible story, one about older brothers and younger sisters and more horror and death than even Sansa could understand. His voice, hoarse, responded with the name she expected.

 

“Aileana.”

 

“Sandor.” Sansa’s hand moved up to cup his cheek. “How old were you when she died?”

 

“Fifteen.” The word made Sansa want to reel back. She knew him to be in his early thirties now, meaning he’d gone half his life without kindness and compassion. At home, there usually wasn’t an hour that went by without some sort of touch for Sansa. Ruffling Bran’s hair. Nudging Robb or Jon. Grappling with Arya, or hugging her mother. Piggybacking Rickon through the house. Oftentimes when they’d been young, her little brothers had fallen asleep on her. Sansa had been away from her family for only a few months and yet a gentle touch was what she craved most of all. She couldn’t imagine years.

 

“Oh, Sandor.” She said sadly, reaching out and enveloping him in a hug. He rested his face in the crook of her neck again, and muffled sobs began to resonate through the room. Sansa stroked his hair, and whispered soft words in his ear, trying her best to comfort a man that she couldn’t even begin to imagine that she understood. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

 

“Fucking apologizing.” His words sounded pained and his grip on her was firm, but he simply held her. “Always fucking apologizing, aren’t you?”

 

“Someone has to.” She whispered, thinking of her words. After a few long moments, Sandor raised his face to hers, a look of breath taking vulnerability on it.

 

“You make me weak.” He didn’t say it accusingly, but rather with a tone of surprise, like he didn’t expect it to happen, much less for him to confess it to her. “I haven’t had a fucking… Attack in years. Years, not such the Blackwater. You’re as bad for me as a bloody battle, do you know that?”

 

“What?” Sansa’s mouth was dry, but she needed him to explain his words. She couldn’t be hearing him correctly, because what he was saying, what he was comparing her to, was madness. “What… What do you mean, I’m like a battle?” She knew he was former military, or he’d at least alluded to it in some form during their few chats, but she’d hadn’t known of what.

 

“I was a soldier.” He said it almost dreamily. “Saw a lot of fucked up things and did my fair share of them too, I’ll admit it. But that night…”

 

“There was a battle?” Sansa asked carefully, trying to understand him.

 

“Aye, the Blackwater.” He leaned back out her embrace, his eyes going distant. “You’ve never heard of it, no, they made sure of that. But imagine it. A fucking city full of bloody soldiers, a bay full of fucking rebels. You ever seen water on fire, little bird? You ever see men trying to drown themselves, so that they don’t have to be fucking burnt alive?”

 

“No.” She whispered, horrified.

 

“I have.” His voice was as sharp as a blade. “I was in the middle of it, and when I saw that wave of fire coming to me, you know what I did? Shit my pants and had an anxiety attack, like a little coward. Me, the elitely trained, special ops commander. They didn’t put me back in combat after that, put me through psych eval after eval and decided for me that it was time for me to get out. Only job I ever had, only family I ever had, only meaning I have had, and it all left in the blink of an eye. I had no fucking control over what was happening to me, none whatsoever. And you.” He turned his gaze on her, the color of a winter sky. “You make me feel the same fucking way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you love it? Did you hate it? Did you get whiplash going from Basia Bulat to Camilla Cabello? Sorry, the playlist has no rhyme or reason, just Sansan. 
> 
> Seriously though, I really love this chapter and I hope you all do too. Enjoy the long weekend and the start of summer to all my friends here in the US! 
> 
> Blessings my dears.


	11. Painkillers, DREAMERS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok everyone say it with me now.... THIS IS MY FAVORITE CHAPTER! Back to Sandor POV!!!
> 
> For reals though, if you only listen to one song on this whole playlist, make it this one. It. Is. Sandor. Plus it's the kind of song that makes you want to dance around your kitchen in your underwear using a spoon as microphone. 
> 
> Or is that just me? Okay. Please, please, enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think. I adore you and your reviews, every single one.

Well, there he’d done it. Got to the truth of the fucking matter, hadn’t he? Spilled it all out, right there on her lap, to a girl who had the power to break him and didn’t even know it. He stared at her, soaking her in. The few days that he’d been gone, trying to build back up his resolve against her, completely flew out the window. It was useless, trying to fight her. She was a hurricane, and he was only ever going to get swept away by her. He stared into her eyes, and thought of telling her more.

 

Like how he’d spent more money on a red-haired hooker in one night than he had in years, pretending the slim woman was the beautiful girl in front of him.

 

Like how he called her name out when he came, when he slept, when he thought he saw her rushing past. How he went to sleep thinking of her and woke with to the same.

 

Like how she reminded him of everything and nothing. Simple, stupid things made him think of her. How he couldn’t get her out of his fucking skull, like she had moved in and settled down, making herself right at home. How he tried to forget her, and it only drove her in further.

 

Like how all he could think about now was how much he wanted her. Wanted her body, wanted her mind, wanted her soul.

 

So he shut the fuck up.

 

“Sandor.” She was breathing heavily, he noticed. Out of sync, blinking several times. “Sandor, I didn’t… I don’t… I’m sorry, I… I didn’t… Mean to…”

 

“Mean to what?” He demanded gruffly.

 

“Hurt you.” Sansa’s hand slipped into his hair, tangling there. The strands pulled slightly at her grip and he wanted to moan. How did she do the things he liked, and have no clue she was doing so? How could one girl be everything to him?

 

“You didn’t.” He had to at least tell her that. She hadn’t hurt him, not really. She scared the hell out of him, that was for sure. She was the scariest thing to him, and he could overpower her with ease. He had no idea how to explain that to anyone, let alone her.

 

“But you left.” Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, adorably so. “Because I…”

 

“You… You what?” He cut her off and waited for her to realize that she’d done nothing wrong. Nothing at all, ever. It had been him, like always. Him, fucking everything up. She would be the one to apologize, he would give her that, but she had to know that it was always his fault.

 

“Upset you.” She said slowly, face scrunched up like she knew how lame of an excuse it was. He shook his head, marveling at how a woman so smart could understand so little.

 

“Upset me.” He echoed faintly. “Do you even remember what fucking happened there, on the side of that godforsaken road?”

 

“I…” Sansa trailed off, leaning back slightly like she was confused. “I don’t know, you got angry, and I tried to… I tried to… But you got mad, and I…”

 

“I was having another fucking panic attack.” He explained harshly, thinking of his tight chest, the buzzing in his ears, how he’d felt like the world was ending. And then she’d pulled him into her arms and she’d been better than a pill or a shot or whatever it was he’d been doing to numb his pain. “And you fucking stopped it. Ended it, with your fucking chirping and--” He gestured to her.

 

Her eyes were wide and lips parted slightly. She looked so damned kissable, he thought, in a revelation that surprised him. Here he was, being weak and giving her power, and all he could think about what how it would feel to steal a kiss from her lips. Did she even know what she did to men? Or did she just slip blithely through life, unaware of the chaos that came behind her?   

 

“Then why did you go?” Sansa looked hurt and angry, like he’d taken her heart from her chest and stomped on it. It was a look of heartbreak and he answered her question rather than dwell on why she had such a look over him of all people.

 

“I didn’t… Know. How. How to handle… That.”

 

“Handle what?” She let him go and every inch of his body ached and groaned, wanting her back. Needing her back. If she wasn’t there, he would die, or so his body told him.

 

“You.” He meant for the words to be vicious, cutting. Not said like a benediction, like a sinner asking a priest for a blessing. Sandor had stopped putting stock in church and gods and religion long ago. But she was some sort of worship.

 

“Sandor.” Her voice was so soft, and slow like a Sunday morning in bed. When she moved in front of him, kneeling down between his knees and reaching out, to take his hands in hers, he wondered if his thoughts were sinful or reverent. Her eyes, wide and with some sort of smile about them, caught and held him, with a power she wielded unknowingly. “I am sorry for whatever I did.”

 

“Don’t chirp, little bird.” He said brokenly and she chuckled at that, her long fingers interlacing with his and her thumbs stroking long, slow patterns. She was quiet, giving him the control. He was looking down at her in astonishment and confusion. She kept reaching out for him willingly, no matter how many times he seemingly fucked it all up. Would she ever stop?

 

How long had it been since someone last touched him willingly? He found himself running back through his memories, trying to figure it out. All the way back to Scotland, to the moors, to the laughter of a young girl, with her childish smile. He felt like he’d been dying, withering away without a soft touch. Sansa granted it to him and now he found himself craving it, trying to lean and get closer.

 

“Please don’t leave me again.” She whispered, still sitting there just in front of him. “Ok? I promise I won’t do anything else to make you mad, or angry.”

 

“Fuck that.” He pushed her away, thinking angrily of what her words meant. He was no better than the cunt Joffrey. She’d learned to chirp the pretty words at him, trying to make him complacent, trying to pacify him. Except he liked her best when she was wild, raging. When she was the kind of girl who defied everyone. When she was the wolf of her namesake.

 

“Sandor,” Her voice was hurt, and he was confused, lashing out like a wounded beast. He needed a measure of calmness, of sanity. He needed somewhere where he could sort out the confusing thoughts running through his head, separate hatred from anger from something else entirely. He needed to get out. He needed to run. He needed, needed, _needed,_

 

“I’m going.” He rounded on her suddenly, grasping her by both shoulders and giving her a tiny shake. Her mouth fell open, a rounded **‘O’** of rose bud lips and surprise.

 

“Where?” He heard the note of betrayal and shook her slightly, trying to get her to understand, to see what he meant, to know…

 

“North, might be.” He watched her face, waiting, waiting for her to get it. Waiting, expecting her to recoil in horror at the idea. But then the little lines between her eyebrows smoothed out and her eyes went impossibly wide, comprehension dawning. “Could be.”

 

“What about Joffrey?” She asked him, hope hiding behind a smidge of fear and he wanted to erase that fear from her. His lip curled and he knew she was asking about why he would give up the windfall that was Joffrey’s service. He didn’t know the answer really, all he knew was that his next words were the truest thing that he might’ve ever said in his life.

 

“He can die just fine on his own.” He searched her eyes, heart in his throat, thinking about how he was going to do the very thing he’d vowed not to do, weeks ago, when she’d first handed him that ring and necklace and put her trust in him. A fucking fool he might be, but he didn’t care. “I could take you with me. Take you to Winterfell. I’ll keep you safe. Do you want to go home?”

 

“I…” She breathed, hands fluttering up to rest over his massive ones on her shoulders. He stared down at her, trying to comprehend the look on her face, before suddenly a cloud passed over it, quick as a breath and she suddenly looked doubtful, nervous. He knew what it was a second later. A bolt of anger, not at her but at the world, went through him.

 

“Look at me!” He said harshly, shaking her again. He wanted her to know this was no trick by Joffrey or Cersei, no way of making her warrant another punishment. He was not Joffrey’s puppet any longer, and hadn’t been for days. Maybe weeks. Maybe from the moment she was hauled in and he was installed as her guard and protector. He was offering this as himself, as the man he was. All that he was.

 

“You won’t hurt me.” Sansa’s voice was barely a whisper. She said it as a question, as a statement, as a request, as an assurance. Everything about her was vulnerable, and he wavered between wanting to protect her and wanting to run. But his decision had been made long ago. She looked up at him and though her innocence was childlike, the set of her jaw was firm.

 

“No, little bird, I won’t hurt you.” His rasping voice was as soft as he could make it. “I could keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again or I’d kill them.”

 

For a second, the world was nothing more than a suspension of them, hung in time like a star hung in the sky. It was an immovable moment, stretching out in equal directions. All that had ever happened was this moment, all that would ever happen was this moment. Sansa looked up at him, with wild, terrible hope and he was breathless. He’d never seen a thing look more beautiful.

 

“Yes.” One word, breathless. One word, easy. One word, infinite.

 

One word, and Sandor Clegane’s whole world, whole purpose, shifted.

 

He looked down at her, with her creamy skin and the faint little freckles that had appeared during the jaunts outside in the sun. He wondered if he traced them, if the stars above would find their match there, sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. He looked into her blue eyes, entranced by the dark rim, and the flecks of blue that drew him in, deeper and deeper. He was moving towards her before he even realized what was happening and then those blue eyes shut, head tilted up towards him, and…

 

He released her a little harder than he meant to and she went spinning away, as he took a couple steps back, sucking in a ragged breath and trying to get control. He looked up at her and she was standing in the middle of the room, looking astonished and a little forlorn. Without any further thought, because if he thought about it he was going to make a mistake, he left, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it tightly. He needed time. He needed quiet. He needed a fucking beer.

 

* * *

 

 

The next couple days, he hardly saw Sansa. Joffrey didn’t ask after her, too distracted by visiting the porn studio and strutting around the club, talking about his latest victories, ones that were hardly victories at all. For every victory he won against Robb Stark and the Wolves, he lost something else. Sandor was sure he wasn’t the only one who saw that the tides were going to turn, eventually. He left Sansa to be guarded by Jaime and Bronn, knowing they, at least, could be trusted.

 

He was busy. He needed to prepare. Getting out of SoCal with her, undetected, was going to be difficult. Joffrey had police on his side, had more spies and bikers than anyone else, and he knew the second he and Sansa attempted to run, Joffrey would set them all on them. Sansa Stark was his most cherished prize, and there was no way he was going to let her go. So they’d have to go east first, and fast. He was no stranger to being on the run, using diversions and living rough. But Sansa wasn’t, and that worried him.

 

He tried to figure out how much influence Joffrey had, how far it reached, how best they might get away. He needed a plan, and a good one, because if Sansa wound up hurt at his hands, he wasn’t sure that he could live with himself. So he needed guns. He needed money. He needed a route. He needed fake ids, names, everything. He needed to keep her safe.

 

Sansa, for her part, didn’t seem to worry in the slightest. All the times he saw her, she kept her head down, quiet, careful not to show any sort of joy or distress. They were just living until the opportunity came for them to finally escape, and he couldn’t wait for the chance to do so. Every day it became a little harder to grit his teeth and remain silent, to stand behind Joffrey and not want to reach around and strangle him. But he had to, and every time he saw Sansa, he remembered.

 

Still, he guarded her at night. They were back to where they’d began, her sleeping in the bed while he slept in a chair. Some nights he didn’t sleep at all, mind running with thoughts about burner phones, about evasion tactics, about cover stories. He had to get her out of Joffrey’s reach first, had to get her somewhere safe. He had extensive training in such things, and never was he so thankful for it. But he couldn't make himself sleep beside her. He was still too raw. He could only think about their escape.

 

Finally, the chance came.

 

“Go!” Joffrey ordered, looking quite mad. “Go, now! Do you hear me? Listen to your fucking president! I’m your fucking president!”

 

“Joffrey,” Cersei was trying to calm him, but it was futile. He was beyond reason now, and Sandor was silent, hoping like hell Joffrey would be stupid enough to keep him here, not send him out like he was ordering the rest of the club. The men hesitated for a moment.

 

It seemed Robb Stark had grown bolder, and Sansa’s big brother had taken control of a warehouse, deep in Joffrey’s territory. It had housed guns, drugs, other illegal matters, but most importantly, it’d been where money, lots of money still needing laundering, had been kept. If Joffrey didn’t take it back, he stood to lose more than just some territory. He could lose this war.

 

“GO!” Joffrey’s voice was shrill and harsh. “Kill him! Kill him, cut him down! All of them! Burn them to the ground! Kill them all!”

 

“Joffrey,” Jaime looked to reason with him, as did Littlefinger, but Boros cut them all off, drawing his gun with a sadistic smile.

 

“You heard him. We’ve got some fucking Wolves to kill.” He said and Sandor loathed him, stupid and slow and savage Boros, capable of only cruelty. The world would be better off with 100 dead Boros Blount’s, just like every other Lion.

 

“Will you be joining us?” Jaime’s voice had shifted into disgust, looking at Joffrey. “Care to face Robb Stark yourself then?”

 

“I need to be here!” Joffrey shrieked. He’d never sounded more like a frightened, cowardly child. Sandor wondered how the hell he came to be the president at all, and then remembered when Cersei put her hand on Joffrey’s shoulder.

 

“Joffrey,” Her voice was cloying and it made Sandor want to wrinkle his nose. The woman had one redeeming quality and that was that she genuinely did love her son, but in a way that made him a little ill. “You can’t send everyone off, you need to keep--”

 

Quick as lightning, Joffrey’s hand struck her fully across her cheek. The crack of the slap silenced the whole room, from bikers to hookers alike. Cersei reeled back, hand coming up to cover her cheek as she stared in disbelief at Joffrey.

 

“Go.” His words trembled with rage. He looked to his men. “If you don’t get me that goddamn warehouse back, I’ll skin you all alive, every one of you. And you, mother.” He practically spat the words. “Take the fucking whores. Go to the porn studio. I don’t want to see anyone here. Go.”

 

For a second, there was utter silence through the clubhouse. No one said or did anything. Then, with a laziness that underscored his utter madness, Joffrey drew his gun, and aimed it at Littlefinger, who visibly, and immediately, paled. Everyone was still, until Cersei plastered on the fakest smile Sandor had ever seen, and stood up straight, trying to hide the way she was trembling.

 

“Alright, girls, you heard your president.” She clapped her hands, as though Joffrey had commanded them to make him a drink, not leave the safety of the clubhouse. Instantly, the gaggle of woman began pushing their chairs back, standing and gathering things. Not a word was said as they hustled out, heads down, avoiding looking at anyone, especially Joffrey.

 

“Someone should protect them.” Littlefinger suggested suddenly, and Sandor wanted to chortle, then and there. Typical Littlefinger, trying to save his skin under the guise of chivalry. Joffrey’s green eyes flashed, and then the gun was aimed a little higher, right at Littlefinger’s skull.

 

“Go.” The words were a final order, and no one dared defy him. So then the men left, drawing weapons, and when the roar of the bikes finally faded, only he and Joffrey remained.  After a musing pause, Joffrey looked up at him, malice glinting in his eyes. “Bring me the girl.”

 

He bowed his head for a moment, blood thundering in his ears. He reminded himself that soon, soon, they would all be out of this, it would only be a memory. So he went to get Sansa, anxiousness and worry turning his stomach to knots. He climbed the stairs, wondering if it was the last time, and took the key from his pocket, unlocking the door slowly. Sansa was sitting on the bed, drawing, and when she looked up, her smile was brighter than the sunlight streaming through the thin windows, and twice as warm.

 

“He wants you.” He muttered, no doubts about which ‘he’ it was. Sansa stiffened for a moment, but then gracefully got up and pulled on those stupid heels. She was dressed in a red dress today, all tight and ridiculous. An errant thought about putting her in new clothes flitted across his mind. He wondered what Cersei had done with the clothes she’d arrived in. Burned, most likely.

 

“Ok.” Sansa stood in front of him, but he blocked the door. He looked down at her and thought of the last time they were so close, when he was so close to… But instead, he reached down and took her hand. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly as he raised it and placed it over his chest, confused. He willed her to understand, and when her fingers pressed into the necklace and ring he still kept safely tucked away, her eyes widened and he let her hand go. There it was. Time to go.

 

“Sansa.” Joffrey looked up when they walked into the chapel. He had a look of cruelness in his face and Sandor thought again of patience, patience, patience…

 

“Yes?” Sansa’s high, sweet voice was clear, without a hint of fear and when she looked at Joffrey, it was with an utterly serene expression.

 

“Do you know where everyone is?” Joffrey asked her slowly and the mask slipped, for just a moment, and Sandor cursed at himself for not warning her.

 

“I don’t, I’m sorry.” She said softly, dropping her gaze.

 

“I’ve sent them to kill your brother.” Joffrey uttered it like others said love poems. “I’ve sent them to bring me his head.”

 

“Oh,” Sansa’s lip trembled and Sandor waited for the right chance, the right moment. He needed Joffrey to take his gun out, to disarm him before he could do anything.

 

“Did you hear me?” Joffrey stood up and crossed the space, grabbing Sansa’s chin, hard, and yanked her gaze to his. “I said, I’m going to bring you your brother’s head.”

 

“Or maybe he’s going to bring me yours.” Sansa shot back, in defiance, and Joffrey’s gaze went wide, but he recovered and with an enraged snarl, he pulled his gun to aim it and her, and--

 

Sandor was faster. In a moment, he had grabbed the barrel of the the gun, angled it away from Sansa, yanked it from Joffrey’s hand, spun it around, and used the butt of it to effectively pistolwhip Joffrey across the face. With something between a screech and a cry, he stumbled back, the same moment as Sansa moved back behind Sandor with a gasp. He spun the gun again so that it was pointed at Joffrey, looking down at him with hatred that was building. Joffrey looked at him, mewling.

 

“They said you’d be loyal!” He shouted, to really no one in particular. Sandor couldn’t help his snort of derision at the childlike anger.

 

“Aye, I am. To her.” The words were truthful and he couldn’t help but glance back at the said her, who was peeking around him. “Little bird?”

 

She knew what he was asking then, as he stood over a sniveling Joffrey with a split lip that dripped blood. He was asking her opinion. Her request. Her wishes. For a second, he saw fear, anger, hatred, and contempt cross her face. Then her nails dug into his side and she decided.

 

“Knock him out. Tie him up. We can’t take him with us, but you can’t be the one to kill him. That belongs to my brothers, my mother, Arya.” She declared and Joffrey went to protest, but Sandor was already descending on him with closed fists. When the blonde haired prince was finally bloodied beneath him, Sandor sat up and realized Sansa was gone. He looked up for a second, wondering where the hells she’d disappeared to, before she appeared in the doorway again and he was blown back.

 

She had changed while he’d been beating Joffrey unconscious and for a second all he can do it blink and try to take her in. She was wearing the biker boots he’d stolen for her ages ago, and the short jean shorts that were ripped into shreds. She was wearing a red tank top, but this one was at least plain, and her hair was braided back, loose and messy. Over her back was the duffel bag he knew contained all his weapons, and in her hand was the pistol he’d taught her to shoot.

 

“Sansa.” He was nearly breathless, and not because he’d faced down death several times already today. She was everything here.

 

“We need to go.” She reminded him and he glanced at Joffrey, who was out cold and bleeding profusely. He did hope he hadn’t killed him, but couldn’t find it in himself to regret if he had. He stood and in three steps, was to her. Sansa pressed the gun into his hands and it was warm from its contact with her palm. For a second he could do nothing but stare down at her. Then he grabbed her forearm and pulled her out of the chapel, through the clubhouse, and into the sun.

 

Besides Joffrey’s, Stranger was the only bike left outside the clubhouse and both Sandor and Sansa were on it in a heartbeat; he roared away with her arms barely around him. For a few minutes, the sheer adrenaline of what had happened sustained him, though eventually he calmed down enough to realize what he had done. He’s stolen Sansa Stark, undoubtedly nearly killed Joffrey, and sent both of them on the run.

 

But then he felt her thin arms around him, the rapid rise and fall of her chest where it pressed into his back, and how, occasionally, like she needed to reassure herself it was real, her nails would dig into his kutte. He wanted to smile then, because in this moment, as they sped through the desert, he could allow himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she was his girl.

 

They stayed on the back roads, away from the main roads and the traffic. He didn’t stop, even went he felt Sansa shift behind him, nails prodding him. Now was the time to make the most of their escape. Eventually, Joffrey would wake. Someone would return and find him. Police would be alerted. Rewards offered. Search parties sent. And then they’d really have to be careful. As it was, he was already wary.

 

An hour passed, then two. Still, they went down winding roads, sometimes using dirt roads. He had only a general idea of where they were, but used his instincts to take them east, further and further east. If they could clear California, they might be alright. Joffrey’s reach extended into Nevada and Arizona, but with smaller clubs. He just had to get her somewhere safe, safe enough.

 

After what he thought was hour four, he knew he had to stop. Sansa’s prods were getting more insistent and even if she hadn’t spoken, he already knew what it was. She was hungry, she was thirsty, she had to pee. He knew it all. So he tried to find the cheapest, shittiest gas station and prayed for any merciful god that might exist that whoever was behind the register didn’t know the name Joffrey or the Lions.

 

He pulled up to a dusty station with only four pumps that looked like it hadn’t seen a customer in years. That would do nicely. He stopped in front of one and shut the bike off, as Sansa got on the back of the bike, groaning and stretching her legs. She looked at him, a tentative smile making the corner of her mouth twitch. He gave her a grimace in return and held out a hand for the duffle bag.

 

“Leave that here.” He ordered and she shrugged it off. Moving so that he blocked the view of her from the station and gestured for her to unzip it. She did so, quizzically, and he pointed to the smallest handgun he had. “Take that one, tuck it in your back. Safety off. Go in, pee, get some snacks or whatever. I’ll pump the gas.” He handed her a couple bills.

 

“Then why am I taking a gun?” Sansa demanded but tucked the gun in nonetheless.

 

“Because if anyone recognizes you, I want you to shoot them.” He said flatly and Sansa’s face was an unreadable mask for a moment.

 

“I don’t like using a gun. I’m not good at it.”

 

“I’ll get you fucking lessons later. You’re taking it, and you’re going to use it if you need to, alright?” He looked at her sternly.

 

“How about if I just shoot at them, and then you come running?” She offered and he gave her an exasperated look until she went.

 

He pumped gas, glancing at the little building and waiting anxiously for shots to ring out. He distracted himself by glaring at the duffle bag and trying to figure out what to do with all the guns. It looked suspicious to have Sansa carrying them all, but short of strapping them onto themselves, he had no idea what to do with them and all the ammo. And Sansa needed new clothes, and some toiletries, because she was a girl. What did girls need? He desperately tried to remember.

 

“Any trouble?” His head snapped up when she strode back out of the gas station calmly, eating a bag of trail mix and sipping on a bottle of water. She handed him his own bottle of water, a quizzical expression on her face. “Anyone say anything?”

 

“No.” She was giving him a strange look, but he was just thankful that they might have made a clean break that he ignored it.

 

“Good.” He itched for a cigarette, turning to ask her why she hadn’t gotten him a pack. “Hey, run back in there and get me a fucking pack of smokes?”

 

“No.” She stated flatly and he looked at her then, really looked, at her. The expression was one he hadn’t seen before and he shifted, perplexed.

 

“Little bird, what?”

 

“Sandor,” She said slowly. “Why aren’t we heading north?”

 

“Ah,” He saw it then, the distrust and hurt in her eyes. He felt like he had deceived her, guilt seeping into his veins. He should’ve told her, explained it, but he hadn’t been able to trust that she would’ve came with him, knowing that he would not take her directly home. “We can’t go north.”

 

“You said,” Sansa voice was trembling and he wasn’t sure if it was with rage or fear. “That we were going to go north. Home, to Winterfell! My family!”

 

“Sansa!” He said roughly, grabbing her arms and shaking her slightly. “Listen to me. Robb took the Westerling warehouse. That’s why Joffrey was so angry.”

 

“Robb what?” Sansa snapped to her senses. “The Westerling one, that’s…”

 

“Exactly.” He confirmed her thoughts. “That means every single one of his men is pissed off, looking to get revenge. On Robb. You think they’ll stop when they know who you are?”

 

“Oh.” Dazed, Sansa sat down on his bike. “But if you took me there, to him--”

 

“Sansa.” He shook her again. “Who are you?”

 

“Sansa. Stark.” She said haltingly, looking up at him.

 

“And where are you from?”

 

“Winterfell. NorCal.”

 

“Who is your brother? Who was your father?”

 

“They led the Wolves, they…”

 

“Aye, and who the hell knows this?” He pressed her and she blinked a couple times.

 

“I mean....”

 

“Everyone.” He confirmed. “Everyone knows this Sansa, the whole damn state knows who you are and where you’re from. The second Joffrey figures out that you’re gone-- we’re gone-- he’s going to send people to look for you. And where’s the first place they’re going to look?”

 

“North.” She whispered in understanding.

 

“So we’re going east.” He told her. “We’ll get far enough east that Joffrey can’t reach you, then we’ll go north and get you back from there.”

 

“Oh.” She seemed to crumple slightly and he felt the sting of it then. Of course she didn’t want to be with him. She wanted home.

 

“C’mon.” He said roughly, handing her the duffle bag again.

 

“Wait,” She said suddenly, brightening. “What if we went to the cops? They could get me home!” He gave a short bark of laughter and she wavered, suddenly unsure.

 

“Fucking cops?”

 

“Yes, like the police.” She added and he rounded on her.

 

“Pretty, pretty bird. Gets to sing, doesn’t need to think.” He mocked. “You trust the police? You think they’re going to help? Half of them are in Joffrey’s pocket, and when he puts out a reward for you, they all will be. Why do you think I take the backroads? Stay away from cities and towns? Because make no mistake girl, if we get pulled over, I’ll be put to the chair and you’ll be back with Joffrey before you can so much as cry for home.”

 

“He can’t have all the police.” She said unsurely.

 

“No.” He bared his teeth. “He has just enough. The right people in the right places. People that can make up lies and crimes. Say that you’re a dangerous outlaw, a whore, whatever. Traveling with me doesn’t make it any better now does it? Me, the killer. Murderer. Gun for hire. The police will chase us. The law won’t protect us. If you think that they won’t issue an APB on the both of us the instant Joffrey is found, you’re an absolute fucking idiot.” He ended his rant, chest heaving.

 

“And you thought of that?” Sansa questioned.

 

“Of course I fucking thought of that.” He said, a little angry. “What the fuck did you think I was doing all those nights I didn’t fucking sleep?”

 

“And this was the best idea you could come up with?”

 

“You got a fucking better one?” He stared at her, slightly incredulous that a girl like her was going to tell him what to do.

 

“No.” She admitted. “I just wanted to make sure that we were doing what was the best idea. I wanted to go home. I didn’t know it was going to take ages.”

 

“Ages.” He gave a hollow laugh. “So the little princess might not get home in time for Sunday dinner. Woe to you, isn’t that right?”

 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Her eyes were flashing. “I meant that I want to make sure we’re doing the best thing. The smartest thing.”

 

“Oh, so you think you’re fucking smarter than me?” He glared at her. “Fucking college girl, don’t forget that this is my fucking job.”

 

“I’d know that if I knew anything about you.” She taunted him archly and he gave her a grin that was threatening rather than sweet.

 

“Know that I’m Joffrey’s fucking worst nightmare.”

 

“Fine,” Sansa snapped, going stiff in his arms. “What do we do then?”

 

He let her go, impressed as always at how wolfish she could turn. “We run, little bird, we run fast and fucking far, and I keep you safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like it? Did you listen to the song? Did you dance around the kitchen? Try it sometime. It's a blast. 
> 
> Reviews are love and air and gold and kisses and hugs and generally the nicest thing. I'd take anything from you guys. 
> 
> THANKS BYE


	12. Home, Gabrielle Aplin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW ONCE AGAIN YOU ALL CONTINUE TO AMAZE ME WITH ALL YOUR KIND WORDS
> 
> I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH I'M LITERALLY JUST THROWING HEARTS AT EVERYONE WHO READS THIS

Sansa sat in the motel room, doodling in her notebook. It was late at night, but she couldn’t sleep. Sandor had left, but not until after laying out an arsonal on the bed and explaining to her how each gun worked, their pulls and quirks, how one went wide and one had a hair trigger. Then he’d ordered her to shoot everyone that wasn’t him and had left her in a dirty motel. She had a gun on her knee and her notebook on her lap, trying to draw the woods that sprawled out behind Winterfell. She was adding a little bird on a branch when the lock in the door began to turn and she picked the gun up, aiming it with a shaking hand at the door.

 

“Don’t fucking shoot, it’s me, little bird.” He called, before opening the door and she lowered the gun. He walked in, noting her position with approval. He had two large paper bags in his arms and he set both down on the table, rummaging through them. Sansa flipped the safety on the gun and set it aside, standing up and walking over to inspect what he’d brought.

 

“What’d you get?” She asked curiously, as her stomach rumbled. He glanced at her and grunted, reaching in and pulling out two smashed sandwiches and a bag of chips. He handed them to her with a pointed look and she tore into one, taking an eager bite. He brought out several other things, including a box of hair dye. He set it in front of her and she stared at it, sandwich forgotten.

 

“Don’t fucking complain.” He ordered, anticipating her protests. “Do you know how bloody red your hair is, little bird? Half the damn country will know exactly where you are before you’re even halfway out the fucking door. Dye it. Don’t argue.”

 

“I don’t want to.” Sansa couldn’t help but jut her chin out in protest. She’d always been proud of her hair and had always gotten compliments on it. Her mother had brushed it as a child until it shone, and while she’d been called carrot top, ginger, red, and more nicknames than she could remember because of her hair color, she knew it was a defining trait of her beauty. She stared at the brown dye as if it would bite her.

 

“Do it.” Sandor glared at her. “Or I’ll hold you down and do it myself, understand?”

 

She snatched the box and glared at him, taking both the box and her sandwich to the bathroom and making sure to slam the door loudly so that he knew she was mad. Then she sat down on the toilet, gingerly avoiding the spots of indistinguishable colors, glaring at the instructions on the back of box like she might light them on fire with nothing but her mind.

 

_Start at the roots, apply dye…_

 

She finished her sandwich and chips, setting the other one aside for later. Then, resigning herself to the fact that this was necessary for her safety, and for Sandor’s as well, she began to slap the dark brown goop to her red roots, cringing the whole time. Several times she consulted the back of the box, cursing as she tried to avoid touching anything in the bathroom.

 

At the end, her arms and shoulders ached, the floor of the bathroom had a new stain of brown to be added to its mosaic of blotches, and Sansa wanted to be done. She was exhausted and in an awful mood. She needed to sleep for years, and forget that she really was no longer Sansa Stark now. She looked at the last instruction, to wash her hair out, then looked into the shower.

 

“Oh, hell no.” She said aloud, cringing. Someone, or something, seemed to have died in there, leaving behind remnants of hair, goo, and other things she didn’t want to identify.

 

“What?” Sandor’s voice boomed through the door and Sansa had an idle thought of him sitting outside the door, listening to her, making sure she was doing as told. Determined to argue this out with him, she unlocked the door and opened it with a glare.

 

“I am not showering in there.” She pointed to the cesspool. He inspected it with an air of indifference, then shrugged and looked at her.

 

“Seen worse.”

 

“Well I haven’t.” Sansa pointed to her head, while the brown dye leaked down her neck. “How am I going to wash this out then?”

 

“Sink.” He suggested, as though it should be obvious and Sansa narrowed her eyes.

 

“I can’t see what I’m doing then. You’ll have to make sure I get everything then.”

 

“Fine.” He took up a post at the edge. “Go, then.”

 

“This is the worst.” Sansa bent under the faucet, closing her eyes before beige rivelets could blind her. “Get it out then.”

 

“What?” For a second he didn’t seem to comprehend and then tentative, nervous hands began to massage her skull. Once the water gargled and turned warm and Sandor stopped thinking that his fingertips might crush her, the experience became sort of pleasurable. It had been so long that someone had washed her hair for her that Sansa smiled slightly at the sensation, remembering when she was a child.

 

“Is it all out?” She asked, once the water started to chill again.

 

“I don’t know.” He muttered and so she patted her hand around until she found the knob and spun it until the water shut off.

 

“Towel.” She said, cringing to think what critters might linger in one, but knowing there was no other choice. Something vaguely soft was thrust into her hand and Sansa wrapped her hair in a towel, twisting it and putting it atop her head. Then she stood and looked at him. He had an unreadable expression, until he blinked and finally gestured to the bedroom.

 

“I got you a toothbrush.” He told her. “Some toothpaste and deodorant. I didn’t know what else… You… Needed.” His face flamed at the implications.

 

“No, I’m fine there.” Sansa decided that telling him about the IUD that prevented her from getting her period might be too much for his heart to handle. “Thank you.”

 

“Tomorrow we can get clothes.” He seemed relieved at the subject change.

 

“What time?” Sansa had no idea what time it was, or where they were, or what day it was anymore. For all she knew, they’d been running for months already.

 

“Sleep through the day.” He advised her. “We can go out in the afternoon, get clothes. Drive through the night, easier that way. Sleep in the day, drive at night, then switch it up. No patterns, makes it harder to track.” He explained and she nodded along, suddenly exhausted. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have pajamas or that the bed probably had bed bugs.

 

“Alright.” She took her toothbrush and the toothpaste. “I’m not showering here though.”

 

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged out of his shirt and Sansa nearly dropped her toothbrush in astonishment. She’d seen him shirtless from a distance, and in tank tops and such, but never up close. Never close enough to see the rippling of his muscles, the way his hair curled softly over his skin, and the tattoos, some faded, some still dark. She looked down, looked up, squeaked, and slammed the door in his face.

 

His laughter followed her as she brushed her teeth, cheeks hot.

 

Sansa was nearly asleep when she realized that Sandor had checked the door several times, checked all his guns at least three times, and was now sitting in a chair by the door. She rolled over and looked at him with bleary eyes. He laid a gun across his lap and another within easy reach. After a second, she realized what he intended and frowned, blinking.

 

“Sandor.”

 

“Hmm?” He glanced at her and her eyes were too heavy to keep open, her body doing what it wanted without her consent or control.

 

“Come to bed.”

 

“I’ll stand watch.”

 

“No, you’ve got to sleep or you’re going to collapse. And I can’t drive your bike. C’mon, I’ll even put a gun under my pillow if that makes you feel better.” She reached a hand out and after a long moment where she was sure he was going to deny her, she heard the guns being adjusted and then the old mattress groaned out a protest as it took his added weight.

 

“Head up.” His order was nearly tender and with all her willpower, Sansa lifted it, until he’d put the gun beneath it. She could vaguely feel the hard metal ridges through the flimsy stuffing, but she was so exhausted it didn’t even make a difference to her anymore. Sandor was telling her rules-- no shooting at him, no shooting at things that might ricochet back at them, so on-- but she was too sleepy to listen. Instead, she reached out until her hand found his broad and warm chest. Soothed, she let himself sink into a dreamless sleep.

 

She awoke with a start, her mind abruptly screaming at her that she was in danger. Someone was coming for her, they were coming to hurt her, and she had to run. Who was coming? What were they going to do? She scrambled to sit up, her mind like a rusty car that wouldn’t properly start. She vaguely remembered that she had a gun and groped for it, thinking that she might defend herself from the phantom dangers. A grunt and muffled curses stopped her from finding it.

 

“Sandor.” She remembered him then, remembered it all once again. She was running, she was being chased, she was in danger, but she wasn’t alone. She had him. She blinked a couple times and then rubbed her eyes to clear them of sleep.

 

“What were you going to do, shoot me?” He demanded, half affronted and half amused. She could see now that he was sitting at the little table by the door, an arsenal and a map in front of him.

 

“I…” She trailed off, not wanting to sound stupid.

 

“Nightmares?” For a second, his face seemed to soften.

 

“No,” She answered, and it wasn’t a lie. For the first time since her father’s death, she’d slept, actually slept, and hadn’t dreamt of the awful, horrible things that Joffrey was going to do to her family members. “Not bad actually. What time is it?”

 

“About 7.” He told her and Sansa stared at him, startled. “I got you some fruit.” He gestured to a plastic cone and she stood up, looking at it with surprise. Inside was cubed watermelon, pineapple, and muskmelon. She raised her eyebrow and took a bite of watermelon, sighing slightly. She hadn’t had fresh fruit in what felt like forever. He offered her a sandwich too and she took it, sitting across from him.

 

“Did you already eat?” She asked him, between bites.

 

“Aye.” He was busy studying the map.

 

“Did you leave me for long?” She wasn’t mad, just surprised, but still, his head snapped up and he looked at her with a mixture of anger and something else.

 

“No. Gas station is right down the road. I’m not leaving you, little bird.” He said harshly and her stomach plummeted like it was filled with stones. That hadn’t been what she meant, at all, but the moment to tell him that was gone. He was already beginning to gather things up. “Get ready. We’ll go get you proper clothes, so that you have something to wear besides--” He gave her clothes a sneer, with the remembrance of the lions all of them. Sansa didn’t disagree, and a chance for something of her own was sweeter than her fruit.

 

The feeling didn’t change even when he pulled up to a thrift shop. It didn’t matter that a gutter was swinging in the wind, and that the light above the door flickered on an irregular beat. The Sansa of long ago, once the princess of her father’s eye, wouldn’t have been caught dead in anything without a brand name attached to it. Now, the prospect of wearing clothes that weren’t red and gold filled her with joy.

 

“How much?” She asked him lowly, as they walked in, trying to remain inconspicuous.

 

“What?” He grunted.

 

“How much can I buy?” She asked him, cringing when she realized how it sounded. She just wanted clothes of her own again. For a second he appraised her, but then didn’t deride her.

 

“Not much. Layers. It’ll get cooler at night, especially in the mountains. Warm in the days though. Sturdy things. Not anything crazy.” He ordered and Sansa nodded, spotting the clerk at the front of the store. It was a bored teenage girl, flipping through a magazine, mouthing along to a song blasting through her earbuds. Sansa relaxed and gave Sandor a smile, as she went to rummage through the clothes and see what she could find.

 

The selection would’ve appalled the old her. She would’ve been distraught at the lack of quality, the utter absence of anything worth spending money on, the dismal state of the clothes there. But now as she ran her hands over shirts that weren’t the color of blood or gaudy gold, Sansa felt like she’d been gifted a trunk full of designer items. She carefully selected her attire.

 

She picked out thick black tights that she could wear under her shorts at night and remove during the day. She picked two pairs of jean shorts, longer pairs that while distressed and torn, would actually cover her ass. She managed to salvage a bra that would work, and a couple white tank tops she could layer. A few graphic tees that were soft to the touch and decently intact were added to her stash. There was one pair of black jeans, complete with rips, that fit her decently well, and an oversized jean jacket that was worn at the elbows, but had big pockets and a large, oversized sweatshirt with a massive hood.

 

To her delighted surprise, she found a couple beanies that would keep her warm and hide the brown locks on her head. She now detested her reflection, she found. The brown haired girl in the mirror, with her gaunt cheekbones and cold, blue eyes, was a stranger that Sansa wanted nothing to do with. Yet here she was, dressing that girl in the same dark greys and whites that the real Sansa Stark might’ve done with. She was just about to choose worn sneakers when she spotted a pair of dark boots, chunky and scuffed.

 

The sight of them made her smile as she picked them up, trying them on. They fit her perfectly and Sansa had to smother laughter and a sob at the same time. They were something Arya would wear, with a scowling face and her oversized, dark clothes. They made Sansa feel like a little bit of her strong, wolfish little sister was right there with her now.

 

Once she had enough things to give her just enough for a rotation instead of the same outfit, she found where Sandor was sulking, a few shirts and a hoodie in his arms. She walked up with her choices and he passed her his items and a couple bills. She took them, giving him a quizzical look. Part of her wanted more time to find him clothes, since he didn’t have much, but the look on his face clearly meant they were done.  

 

“You pay.” He said lowly. “She’ll remember my face.” Sansa glanced at the girl, who hadn’t so much as looked up since they’d walked in.

 

“Alright.” Sansa agreed easily.

 

“These too.” Sandor handed her two large backpacks, both with tears and missing handles and zippers. “We need them to carry things.”

 

“Good idea.” It took Sansa some juggling, but eventually she had everything in her arms and headed to the counter. She spilled the items down as Sandor walked outside. The girl huffed and yanked one earbud out. Sansa gave her what she hoped was a casual smile.

 

“Cash or card?” The girl demanded, swiping the items vigorously across the scanner like they’d done her a personal injustice.

 

“Uh, cash.” Sansa told her, watching as her new clothes disappeared into the bag with what felt like a barely contained, giddy smile. The girl shoved everything into one large, paper sack, snatched the money from Sansa, counted it, abused the register keys by punching the amount in, and then slapped the money back in Sansa’s palm before disappearing behind her magazine.

 

“Any problems?” Sandor growled when she walked out with the large back.

 

“You could’ve had green monkeys crawling out your ass and she wouldn’t have noticed in the slightest.” Sansa told him, giving him the money back, and that elicited startled laughter from him. He took the cash and then they drove back to the motel, where Sansa happily locked herself in the bathroom with her new clothes and finally got to change out of her Lannister items.

 

She felt like a snake shedding its old skin as she peeled the clothes off and threw them, without fanfare, into the garbage can. She didn’t care that she was likely dirty and smelly, because she was not getting in the shower, and all that mattered was the fact that she was free. She pulled on one of the tank tops, then the tights and shorts, before tying up the black boots. Arya’s boots. She emerged with a beaming smile.

 

“Oh.” Sandor was busy shoving things into their new backpacks, clothes and ammo in hers, weapons in his, when she walked out and spun around, grinning.

 

“I know.” She put her hands on her hips and struck a jaunty pose. She’d purposely chose whites, greys, and blues. Her club colors. She’d hated them when she was growing up but now she’d rather die than wear gold or red again. “Suits me, doesn’t it?”

 

“Aye, it does.” He sounded a little strangled, at least to Sansa’s ears.

 

“Thank you.” She grinned at him.

 

“Here, then.” He sounded gruffer than usual, reaching inside his kutte. Sansa look a step closer, frowning slightly, trying to think of what it would be.

 

“What?” She wondered if he was going to give her a knife or a gun of her own. The thought of having it didn’t distress her like it might have, once.

 

“You’re safe now.” He untangled her necklace and ring from his fingers and Sansa had to work hard to swallow the lump that had risen up suddenly in her throat. “You can have these back then.”

 

“Oh, Sandor.” There were no words good enough for her here, not when she was staring in astonishment at the items. It seemed like ages ago, that first night she’d been taken to the clubhouse and paraded before everyone as Joffrey’s newest toy.

 

She’d hardly noticed him, not in her shock at the turn of events. She was too busy alternating between berating herself and imagining all the horrible things Joffrey was going to do to her. When he’d practically yelped for his dog, Sansa was sure that she was about to be fed to some rapid hounds or something worse. Instead, he’d given her to Sandor.

 

She hadn’t known who he was. All she knew was that he was the only person in the clubhouse that wasn’t wearing a Lion’s patch or sucking a Lion’s dick. Nothing else mattered. He wasn’t one of them, and that made him better than everyone else in her opinion. She had made the decision, on the spot, to trust him. She hadn’t cared that he had the general disposition of an axe murderer. She hadn’t cared that his scars marked him as far more vicious than Jaime or Bronn or even Littlefinger. She hadn’t cared that he’d been far more clever than Boros or Trant or anyone else she might’ve manipulated easier.

 

She had trusted him, instinctively, the moment he’d taken her away from Joffrey. It had been the best decision she’d ever made.

 

“Here.” He gestured for her to turn around and she did, lifting her hair off her neck so that he had better access. He carefully settled the wolf and moon on her skin, latching the necklace carefully. She let her hair down, turning to face him. After a long moment, he reached down, took her hand, and slipped the ring on her finger. Sansa’s throat constricted tightly.

 

“Thank you.” She whispered, feeling like she’d regained a limb or something else vital to her body. She felt right again, complete. Unbidden, she bent and kissed his cheek, the scarred side. She pressed her soft lips to the twisted mass that was his cheek and found, to her surprise, that the skin there wasn’t that different. Puckered, sure, but still warm. It was just different but no more so than the scars her father carried from his long life spent at the head of the table.

 

He grabbed her wrist, stilling her and keeping her there. Her lips hovered over his cheek and her heart fluttered, absurdly wondering if her breath smelled. He held so tightly to her that she wondered if he could to shatter the bones in her thin wrist if he wanted to. Then he let her go and she took a step back, automatically going to spin the wolf head ring. 

 

His grey eyes were unreadable. She couldn’t have understood him if she’d wanted to. He might’ve been look at her in rage or in devotion or in disgust, she had no idea. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve like she did. So she stood there in her new clothes, and wondered if she’d crossed one line too far. He still stared at her queerly, as if he didn’t understand.

 

“We need to go.” He decided, but his voice didn’t carry the malice, it held just a little bit of something else Sansa hoped was wonder or happiness.

 

She quickly packed everything else up, easily rolling up her clothes and arranging them neatly in her backpack, nestled amongst the ammo. She brushed her hair back, before weaving it into a tight braid. If she kept it back, out of her face, she might be able to forget the unnatural shade of brown it was now. Then, once she’d put her toiletries away, she looked up at him.

 

“Ready.” She told him, a little breathlessly, and he nodded his approval, before grabbing the large flannel he’d gotten and offering it to her.

 

“Gonna get cold, little bird.” He told her offhandedly, as she shrugged it on. “I drive fast.”

 

“I know.” She snuggled into the oversized folds of the fabric. Nothing had ever felt so fine. She reached down and slung her backpack on then reached out and took his hand. He stared at her and she gave him one little squeeze before they departed, back on the bike.

 

On the ride, Sansa buried her face in the crook between Sandor’s shoulder blades and held on tightly around his waist. The same landscape streamed by, a blur of lights at night, and Sansa didn’t care to look up and see where they were. She didn’t care-- they were still going east, she could tell that much, and all she wanted to do was go north. But Sandor was right, they needed to get away, and she had to trust that he was going to get her away from here safely. It seemed difficult, though, to head away from her family, now when she seemed able to get closer. It made her want to scream.

 

Instead, as the night wore on, she decided what she was going to say to each of her siblings once she saw them again, and the first things she’d do upon arriving home at Winterfell. She’d hug her mother first, kicking aside all the shoes and things that cluttered up the entry. She’d dive, headfirst, into her mother’s arms, and when she finally stopped crying, she’d reassure her that she was fine, she was alright, she would never do something so stupid ever again.

 

Then she’d lay in a pile on the floor with the dogs, all of them, Lady on her chest like she loved so much, and the rest of the dogs pressing against her. She’d cry into Ghost’s fur and whisper apologies and let them carry to Jon, wherever he was. Summer and Shaggy wouldn’t even fight, they’d be calm and lay by her, letting her soak in the comfort of her wolves.

 

She’d hug Rickon tightly, even if he didn’t want her to. She’d hug him until he finally squirmed and yelled in protest and then she would hang on, tighter, just a second longer. She’d laugh and cry when he ran away from her, off to climb a tree or burn something down or shoot things. She wouldn’t follow him out to his woods, where he knew the terrain better than anyone. She’d just know he was there and that would be enough for her. She’d send Shaggydog out to protect him.

 

She’d go to the library, where Bran would be. Thin, slim, slender Bran, with his big eyes that were too wise for the teenager he was. With his ragged jeans and his tendency to smoke when her parents weren’t looking-- _“What, San, my legs are already ruined, what does it hurt if I damage my lungs?”_ \-- and he’d peer up over his glasses at her and would say something offhanded and funny, but somehow still serious. She’d curl up on the couch next to him and lay her head in his lap so that while he read he could run his fingers through her hair until she fell asleep in the soft, dusty light of the library.

 

She’d find Arya in one of the many little sheds and garages that dotted the property. Rock music, loud and angry, would be blasting from one of speakers she’d rigged up, and she’d be headbanging as she worked on fixing some old vintage motorcycle that Sansa would usually sneer at. She’d be wearing her ripped jeans, her dirty black boots, and her dark hair, chopped into harsh pieces and dyed intermittently, would be hidden under a black beanie, and when Sansa walked into the shed, she would glance up with eyes rimmed black.

 

Maybe she’d give her big sister a hug, if Sansa was really lucky. More than likely, Arya would yell at her for being stupid and aim a punch at her arm that lacked any real power. Sansa wouldn’t fight with her, not this time, and she’d sit in silence and watch as Arya’s thin fingers deftly put a bike back together. Sansa vowed that when she got home, she’d appreciate her sister more. They’d fight less. Sansa would work harder. That was what her father had always wanted, wasn’t it?

 

She’d go to the clubhouse for Robb. She’d walk in and all the eyes would turn onto her, but she won’t care. She’d walk right on past them, right to where Robb would be sitting at the head of the massive wooden table. When he’d look up, she’d hug him tightly and then he’d yell and laugh and yell again and she would cry until she couldn’t cry anymore. She’d tell him about Joffrey, about Cersei and Littlefinger, and then he’d take all his men, all the men Sansa had grown up knowing would protect her, take them south, and kill everyone that had hurt her. She’d ride with them and watch.

 

She wasn’t sure what she’d do if she saw Jon. It seemed so improbable, that she couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be like. Would he hate her? Would he hug her? Would they fight or laugh or cry? Or would he turn his back on her and ride off into the sunset, because he was a nomad now and nomads didn’t have families, didn’t have roots, and they’d never been close. But she hoped that he would be happy to see her, that he would be glad she was alright, and that she was home.

 

She kept dreaming up these things, head nodding off against Sandor’s back, warm beneath the flannel, fingers interlaced lightly in front of his stomach. He never once gave any indication that he was sleepy or tired. It was his strong broad back that she rested against, and only when the faintest hint of light began to show on the horizon did he stop.

 

It was another grimy motel, she noted through eyes that hung low with her desire to sleep. This one with brown doors and paint that was flaking off. Somewhere, a baby’s shrill cry punctuated the still morning air on and off, and raised voices followed each squall. She was tired, and thirsty, and hungry, and her tailbone hurt from the endless sitting she’d been doing. She reached her arms up when Sandor returned with a key and he scooped her up without a moment's hesitation. She asleep in his arms before he could even cross the threshold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk it just feels real important to me that even while sansa is not sansa she still gets to reclaim some of her identity please come chat with me about sansa stark feels in the comments friends
> 
> i adore you all may you be hydrated and well rested blessings


	13. Journey (Ready to Fly), Natasha Blume

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early chapter since I am going to literally be in Canada adjacent tomorrow - just a heads up it's got a bit of violence but also if you watch GoT i'm gonna guess you're okay with it?
> 
> Hope you like it!!!

Sansa thought he was going to get too tired if he didn’t rest as often as she did. He wanted to smile at her sweetness, but at the same time wanting to harshly remind her that he had been a soldier and sleep deprivation had been the first weakness that’d been taken from him. But he kept quiet and didn’t say anything that might be too awful for her. He wanted to protect her from the things he’d seen. So oftentimes when she slept, he watched her and wondered what the hell he was doing.

 

It had be easy, before. Before everything, all of this, way before her. He wanted to go back to being told what to do. That had made sense at least. Told when to rise. When to sleep. How to make his bed. Fold his clothes. What to eat. What to do. Where to go. Where to shoot. How to move his body. How to cut his hair. How to feel nothing at all, especially not something that might be compassion.  

 

He was good with orders. He could follow them well. He knew what to do when he was being ordered about. That was how it’d been his whole life, from his brother to his superior officers to his bosses. And then he’d snapped and had a moment where he’d, for once, not wanted to listen to anyone. Where had that gotten him? In a seedy motel room somewhere between Arizona and New Mexico, watching as Sansa Stark slept.

 

She always slept in the massive, oversized hoodie of his. She claimed it was because she could draw her knees to her chest and curl up inside it and not have to actually touch any of the sheets in the places they slept. She could fit in his sweatshirt with ease, and each time she’d pull the sleeves down over her hands, wrap herself up in it, and fall asleep in moments.

 

She was still too skinny, he noted. Her cheeks were still too hollow and the bags beneath her eyes too heavy. He could encircle her upper arm with his hand, and when he carried her into whatever hovel they were staying at for a few hours, it was like lifting wisps. But she actually ate now, he was proud to note. She ate whatever he brought her, and it reassured him.

 

She wasn’t built for this life, he knew that. But she was doing well, and he was proud of her. She didn’t complain that sometimes he’d rouse her after five hours of sleep or that occasionally she’d doze off in the booth of diners, forgetting her fries and a milkshake. She didn’t even complain about the sun that beat down on them as he drove them across what felt like miles of arid nothingness. She just kept her arms around him, her head on his back, her body pressed to his.

 

But he was tense. On edge. They might have been out of Joffrey’s immediate reach but he had influence this far east, and Sandor knew it. They were too close to another club that was friendly with the Lions. They’d probably heard about the reward for he and Sansa. They’d be looking, and it wasn’t like they could blend in here, not with his scars and bike. But for now they were safe, and when the sun set, he’d wake Sansa up and make her ride again, in the darkest of nights. That might work.

 

He folded his hands and leaned forward, rubbing his knuckles into his forehead. He was tired, he couldn’t deny it. But the last time he’d let himself sleep next to her, he’d woken up to find two scrawny arms wrapped around his much larger one, and Sansa’s face pressed to his shoulder, breath making goosebumps rise on his skin. He hadn’t moved for so long he felt like he’d sunk through the mattress, because she was lying there, fast asleep, utterly and heartbreakingly vulnerable in his arms.

 

She trusted him, that was the crux of it. She trusted him enough that she fell asleep next to him in a bed. She trusted him enough that she fell asleep on the back of the bike and knew he wouldn’t let her fall. She trusted him not to turn her in for a small fortune, not to hurt her, not to force himself on her, not to betray her. She trusted him, utterly and completely, and he didn’t know what to make of that. So he sat here, helpless, watching as she softly inhaled and exhaled, her sweet face half hidden by the hood.

 

He checked the clock on the wall once again, then peeked through the curtains. The sun was nearly down and twilight streamed through the downtrodden motel parking lot. An old rusty pickup spluttered past, at the same time that some mother yelled for her children. He thought about what it would be like to have a life, here in this sleepy little nowhere special town. To have a day where all that mattered was getting groceries and making supper for the kids. He couldn’t quite fathom it, especially not now. With a sigh, he let the curtain fall back into place and went to do his least favorite duty.

 

“Little bird.” He said softly, brushing the hood back. The rough pads of his fingertips grazed over her high cheekbones. “C’mon. Time to get up.”

 

“S’up.” She muttered, trying to turn further into the hood, away from him. He felt a sad smile twitch up the corner of his unburned side.

 

“Sansa.” He moved his hand to her shoulder and gave the gentlest of shakes. “We have to leave soon, you need to get dressed.”

 

“Mfumph.” She twisted away from him, drawing her arms around her knees. He sighed and wondered when he’d became her babysitter.

 

“Don’t make me.” He warned and got no response from Sansa. “Little bird, last chance.” Again, not a peep, so he reached down and prodded her side with quick, precise jabs. She practically flew into the air with a loud shriek and toppled herself off the bed in her desire to get away from him. She came up murderous, glaring at him with messy hair and flushed skin.

 

“I hate you.” She declared and he snorted. He’d discovered that particular trick one evening when he was trying to keep her awake long enough to actually eat something.

 

“Up.” He ordered, not feeling bad for her in the slightest. “We need to go soon. We’ll get something to eat then I want out of this fucking shithole.”

 

“Next place we stop better be a laundromat.” She muttered, trying to smooth down her rumpled hair. He looked down at her and frowned slightly.

 

“Why’s that?” They didn’t have time to be washing their clothes after every wear. She’d have to be a little dirty and just deal with it.

 

“I’m out of underwear.” Sansa stated and he wanted to bolt right out the door. He had no desire to be thinking about Sansa and the state of her underwear, not in the deepest pits of hell. He clamped his mouth shut and put on his best and truest intimidation face. Sansa looked up at him, her face impassive. She folded her hands neatly on her lap, tilting her head.

 

“We stop when I say we stop.” He informed her harshly and she didn’t even blink. She simply got up, grabbed her toothbrush, and went to the bathroom. He distracted himself by cleaning up when minimal mess they had in the room. They tended to drop everything and crash into bed upon arrival, and there wasn’t enough to keep his hands busy. He desperately looked around for something, anything to distract him from what came next.

 

They’d developed a routine that, for the most part, he appreciated. Predictability was good. Consistency was good. And he didn’t mind the sleeping part of it, or how he had to wake a bleary Sansa to increasingly angry dispositions. He didn’t mind how she would get up and stumble to the bathroom to get ready to depart, and that she’d usually curse him out on the way. He didn’t even mind that sometimes she’d flip him the bird as she went. That was mostly amusing.

 

But when she was done brushing her teeth, combing out and usually braiding her hair, and doing whatever else it was that girls did in the bathroom, she’d walk out, more coherent and generally happier. Then she would change and he would usually try to die. He wished, fervently, that she’d trust him a little less, because if she knew how much the sight of it pained him, she wouldn’t dare do such a thing.

 

Today was no different. Sansa ambled out, stifling a yawn, and tugged the hoodie off. He kept his gaze sternly affixed to the opposite wall, but he couldn’t not see what was happening in the small room. Sansa wore only a bra and a thin white tank top. The first time she’d done this, he’d been alarmed at how badly her ribs jutted out, how her hip bones poked up over the waistband on her shorts. That was when he started prioritizing eating over sleeping. But once he’d reassured himself that she wasn’t starving herself to death, he started to notice the other things that made him feel like he was being set on fire.

 

Like the soft skin between her shorts and where the tanktop would ride up in her sleep. The neat intake of her waist, a spot that called for him to see how perfectly his hand would fit there. Even places that had no right to be sensual somehow were on her. He longed to kiss her collarbones, stroke the smooth skin of her forearms, rest his face in the crook of her neck like he had once before. He would savor it this time around.

 

“Alright.” Sansa had thrown a tee shirt on over her tank top, and the jean jacket on over that. She was wearing her shorts but with the tights. Her fair skin burned whenever she so much as stepped outside, and this was the best way to keep her from frying to a crisp. “Let’s go then. I mean it about the laundromat though, we need to wash things up. It’s been what, a week?”

 

“Less chirping.” He ordered, handing her the smaller backpack. “You want to get left at a roadside gas station?” It was a false threat and they both knew it, but Sansa still made a face at him.

 

“Don’t be mean.” She retorted. “It’s not a good look on you.”

 

“It’s the only look I have.” He glowered at her and Sansa laughed at him then, a happy sound in the darkening night. He felt like his bones vibrated on the same frequency as her happiness. When had he became so attuned to her?

 

“If we go to a laundromat, I promise that I’ll…” Sansa trailed off, trying to think of something to bargain with. He snorted, putting the key to their room in the dropbox and walking towards his bike. “I don’t know. What do I have to do to deserve clean clothes?” Sansa joked.

 

“Quit chirping.” He grumbled.

 

“Nope. Pick something else.” Sansa declared and he glanced at her, exasperated. There was nothing, and he truly meant nothing, that he would ever ask from her. Never. But she was smiling at him, so prettily, with the setting sun making everything seem a little bit hazy. He gave a helpless shrug and she cocked her head, pursing her lips for a brief moment.

 

“Just tell me a fucking story then.” He said wildly, to stop whatever it was that growing between the two of them. For a second, Sansa seemed a little disappointed. Then her smile was back and she clapped her hands together loudly, a glint in her eyes.

 

“Fine. I’ll tell you it when we wash our clothes.”

 

The drive through the night was unremarkable, and occasionally lights of a town would flash off in the distance, a flickering reminder of what they were trying to return to. Sometimes Sansa would lean heavily onto him and he’d jostle her a little, to keep her awake. But in the early hours of the morning, he found a suitable sized town, with a laundromat on the main drag of the strip. It was an empty, 24 hour joint, with one camera that was pointed haphazardly at the doorway, disconnected and dead.

 

He stopped the bike and appraised the situation, satisfied that no one had noticed them ride in at dawn, and sure that they would be able to find somewhere to rest for a couple hours after Sansa finally had clean clothes. He parked the bike, looking at the small gas station across the street. Groaning and stretching out her stiff legs, Sansa got off after him.

 

“Happy?” He demanded of her and she looked around then smiled up at him.

 

“Oh, completely.”

 

He scowled and gestured to the laundromat door. “Go then. Wash shit. I’ll get us food.”

 

“Alright, but you need to give me your clothes.” Sansa ordered and he nearly tripped over the curb. “And I’m not hungry, just get me a granola bar or something.”

 

“No, you need to eat.” He glared at her. “I don’t need you to wash my clothes.”

 

“Yes you do.” Sansa looked pointedly at his feet. “Your socks are starting to smell.”

 

“So you want me to stand barefoot in some fucking laundromat?” He demanded.

 

“I want you to have clean socks.” Sansa turned on her heel and strode into the laundromat. Fuming, he realized he had no choice but to do as she said. Grumbling furiously under his breath, he went to the gas station to get food. He got himself a bag of chips and three granola bars for each of them. He was just grabbing a packet of lunch meat that looked vaguely questionable when the cashier looked up.

 

“Hey, man.” He called and Sandor tensed, looking up. “Nice bike.”

 

“Thanks.” He relaxed a fraction. Just another gearhead.

 

“Ride nice?” He pressed and Sandor nodded, trying to avoid showing him too much of his face. The man craned his neck to get a better look at the bike and Sandor thought of Sansa, alone in the laundromat and blindly grabbed whatever was left on the shelf, shoving them at the counter and grabbing some bills. “You and your girl going cross country then?” He asked conversationally, scanning the items.

 

“Yeah.” Sandor said from between gritted teeth. He didn’t want anyone focusing on Sansa for longer than a moment. “Road trip.”

 

“Nice man. What brings you here?” The man was too slow, languishing as he swiped and bagged the items. Sandor wanted to hit him.

 

“Just passing through.” Keep it short. Keep it simple. It was a mantra. The less you lied, the less you could be caught in.

 

“Ah.” The guy nodded and took the cash. “Gotcha. Man, must be fun. Riding around like this. No plans or anything, just, like freedom.”

 

“Yeah.” Sandor said curtly, taking the bag and the change as quickly as he could. Did small town people have nothing better to do than try to destroy their brain cells with meth? “Thanks.”

 

“Hey, anytime.” The man gave him a smile that was missing several teeth and Sandor felt validated in his meth theory. “Have a nice day.”

 

Sandor didn’t dignify him with a response. He hurried across the street, glancing back and forth before entering the laundromat. Sansa had opened a machine and was sitting across from it atop a dryer. She was down to one tank top and some shorts. Her bare feet dangled. The backpack, opened, rested on the floor. He looked at her and sighed, reaching up and pull off his shirt. He stripped down to just his jeans, admitting wryly to himself that it would be nice to have clear socks and a tee-shirt for once.

 

“See, not so bad.” Sansa had become rather immune to his shirtless body, he noted, but she still did her best to not outrightly stare. She had her notebook balanced on her knee and she was doodling. He grunted instead of giving her the satisfaction of being right and came over to inspect what she was drawing this time. It often reflected her mood, he found, like when she was homesick and drew her family or home.

 

This wasn’t her family, however. It was in a style that he liked, mostly lines that just kept it from being an abstract shape. It was a girl, or a wolf. It was both, intermixed. A girl with a wolf atop her head. Her face was mostly hidden but her hair streamed down, covering shoulders. One hand was twisted up in the strands. The wolf was looking out, not with a fearful snarl but rather calm, wise eyes. A protector. A guide. A comfort. The two were intertwined, easily and effortlessly.  

 

“Pretty.” He muttered and Sansa looked up with a smile.

 

“Thanks.” She said quietly.

 

“Lady and you?” He asked her and she frowned slightly, inspecting the picture again.

 

“Maybe. If I gave her red hair.” She added some shading to the hair thoughtfully. “But I don’t know who else it would be, I guess.”  

 

“Well,” He tossed her a granola bar. “Take a break and eat something.”

 

“Not that hungry.” She set the bar aside and began to add details to the wolf’s fur.

 

“Sansa.” He said warningly.

 

“Not like that.” Sansa looked up at him. “Just… My stomach doesn’t feel the best. What’s the point in eating if I feel like I’m just going to throw it back up?”

 

“That’s the stress.” He muttered, feeling guilty. He needed to do a better job of protecting her then, if she was so fearful.

 

“Oh.” She tore the wrapper and bit a small corner. “Ok, if I keep this down, I promise I’ll eat the rest. Pinky swear I’ll be good.”

 

“You better.” He grumbled, sitting on the ground. The coldness from the metal of the machine leached into his skin, but he didn’t mind so much, watching Sansa. She kept drawing in silence for awhile longer before seeming to reach a point. Then she looked up and smiled.

 

“Alright, what story do you want then?”

 

“What?” He kept his focus adamantly on the irregular groans and shakes of the washing machine. She wasn’t wearing enough clothes for him to do anything else.

 

“Well, we’re here.” Sansa gestured to the musty room, with its three functioning lights and sea green machines that had seen better days, decades ago. “And our clothes are washing.” She pointed to the only working machine, which gave a groan like it was helping her case. “So you get a story.”

 

“I don’t care, little bird.” He thought about how he’d actually have to sleep tonight. Even if it was just for a couple hours. He was reaching his limit, and he needed rest or he’d crash.

 

“Well, you have to pick.” Sansa flipped through her notebook, looking back on past work. He noted that she’d filled well over half of it and idley made a note to get her another. And colored markers. She’d like those, and he wanted to see her world in color.

 

“Why?” He questioned and she rolled her eyes, huffing.

 

“Do you want to hear a sad story? A happy one? A love story? A funny one?”

 

“As long as it’s about you,” He looked up at the ceiling tiles, with their water damage and likely imminent collapse. “I don’t give a flying fuck.”

 

“Oh.” Sansa seemed a tiny bit surprised. “I don’t have many stories about me, I guess… My siblings are way more interesting, really. They’re the ones that were always getting into trouble and that kind of stuff. I’m just… Sorta… Boring.”

 

“Well, I don’t know them, do I?” He questioned her. “I know you.”

 

“I just mean…” Sansa trailed off and was quiet. He noticed that she always played with her hands when she was nervous. Especially twisting the wolf head ring. “Ok, but then you have to tell me what sort of story you want or I’m going to tell you something stupid.”

 

“Fine.” He allowed her that. “Tell me about young Sansa.”

 

“Ah.” She fell quiet, pondering it. For a long couple moments the only sound was that of the washing machine, alternately groaning and clanking as it struggled to complete its duty. “Alright, it’s not the most exciting of stories but… I don’t know, do you even want to hear it?”

 

“Quit chirping.” He ordered and Sansa rolled her eyes.

 

“Fine, fine, fine. Ok. Well, once when I was in middle school, when Arya and the littles were in elementary school and Robb and Jon were in high school, we went on a vacation. My parents wanted to go skiing and we’d never really done anything like that before. We didn’t take a lot of vacations, you know? Dad was always too busy, there was too many of us, you know, that kind of thing. So when we decided to go, got all packed, loaded up the car, and off we went for the mountains. We fought the whole way.

 

Her lips quirked up into a smile. “At one point Bran nearly choked out Rickon. It was… Exhausting. By the time we got to where we were staying, I think Arya and I wanted to kill each other, Robb and Jon were going to fight, and Bran and Rickon wouldn’t stop hitting each other. My parents probably wanted to dump all of us on the side of the road and never look back.

 

“So we got into the hotel and we get everything all packed away and seperated and calmed down. Our parents made us go to bed but then the next morning it was like we’d all forgotten the drive. It was snowing and we were halfway up a mountain and it just sorta… Flipped. We made each other breakfast. We helped each other get dressed. We didn’t even fight, not a single time. We got fitted for our skis and helmets and poles and stuff and then we got turned loose on the slopes.

 

“The first day was mostly a disaster. Rickon couldn’t go down anything other than the bunny hill. Jon and Robb tried to figure out how to snowboard. Arya kept hitting people with her poles. I sat down and cried for awhile because I couldn’t figure out how to do anything other than pizza-pieing down the slope. By the end of the day we were exhausted, cranky, hungry, cold, you name it. But we didn’t fight. Robb and Jon took us down to the pool so that our parents could have dinner with themselves.

 

“But by the last day, we’d figured it out. We all rode to the top of the mountain in this gondola type thing. Not to ski down it or anything, just to look. And we got up there and got out and stopped and looked around at the mountains and it felt like time just sort of… Stopped. We were standing up there on top of this mountain looking out at everything and it seemed so important. I just felt like… Peace. Stillness. Just utter, absolute calm. And then when we skied back down, I was in the back.

 

“You had Arya and Rickon in the front, each trying to dive bomb the other. Bran was in the trees, racing my dad. Robb and Jon were trying to do tricks on their boards. And my mom was yelling, trying to make sure that no one was going to get hurt. It was just my family, you know? So perfectly my family and I remember thinking that these humans were mine and I loved them more than anything. I was just… Content. I’d never felt that feeling before. I haven’t felt it since. But I’ve been chasing it since then, you know?”

 

She ended her story with a blush and he was startled to realize that tears were pricking the back of his eyes. He could about imagine it, them on a mountainside, a large family, filled with laughter and love and happiness. He’d never known it. He wondered about the feeling of it all, what it would be like to have that level of belonging. No wonder Sansa kept chasing it.

 

“That’s…” He trailed off and Sansa shook her.

 

“Stupid, I know. It’s just--”

 

“No, Sansa.” He looked up at her imploringly, trying to get her to understand. “It’s beautiful. It really is.” She ducked her head, blushing, pleased.

 

They fell back into silence and he took the chance to rest, trying to relax and plan their next moves. He wanted to get well into New Mexico before turning north. Colorado was filled with drifters and they could blend in there. Wyoming was a vast, empty wasteland, and he knew Joffrey didn’t have any friends there. Avoiding Nevada would be best. If he could get her through Idaho and over into Oregon in one piece, that was Stark territory. She would be safe once she was back in Robb’s lands.

 

He watched as Sansa drew. He took in the surroundings. When the machine finally gave a dying groan, he even stood and transferred it to the dryer, griping when it was a dollar in quarters to dry it. Sansa gave him a little smile, doodling. When he came to see what she was doing now, he saw it was a sketch of himself, leaning against the washing machine, eyes half shut.

 

“You’re fun to draw.” She said softly, unafraid to show him her work. He noticed how she softened out his rough edges. His expression in the picture might even be called relaxed.

 

“Sorry there’s not much to work off of little bird.” He grunted and Sansa stretched her fingertips out, glancing the edge of his jawline, tickling the prickly growth there.

 

“There’s a lot to work with.” She said softly. “You have character. You’ve got nuances that I can’t quite master. It’s a fun challenge.”

 

“Like what?” He looked at her skeptically.

 

“Like that.” Sansa grinned and pointed to his eyebrow. “It quirks at the weirdest angle when you’re questioning things. And when you’re happy you don’t smile, but your mouth, here,” She touched the corner lightly. “It twists. You get these little wrinkles. And when you’re angry, there’s a crease, here.” She placed her thumb between his eyebrows. “The deeper it is, the more likely someone is to get hurt.”

 

“And?” He was having a hard time breathing and forming coherent thoughts.

 

“And you tense your left shoulder when you don’t want to be in a situation.” She went on, smiling at him and rest her hand on said shoulder. “And you always keep your shooting hand open. You never hold things with it, if you can’t help it. You don’t put your back to a door or window either. And when you sleep, you always do it on your back on the edge of the bed. I don’t think I’ve even seen you sprawl out.”

 

“Alright then.” He folded his arms, deciding that if this was the game she wanted to play, he could play it right back at her.

 

“What?” Sansa tilted her head.

 

“That.” He pointed. “You do that when you’re confused. You think it’s disarming, makes you look like a little girl. Fucking sly is what it is. You use that against everyone, or just men?”

 

“Just guys.” Sansa was flushed, surprised, but looked delighted. “Woman don’t usually fall for the helpless schtick as well.”

 

“That how you played me?” He questioned her pointedly. “Acting helpless?”

 

“No.” Sansa drew her knees to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. “I never acted helpless with you. I was helpless.”

 

“You weren’t helpless.” He took hold of one hand, looking at the long nails. They hadn't broken, to his surprise, and he knew they were sharp. They’d grip into him when he turned to bike too sharply or when she fell asleep on the back of it. “You never were. Look at these.”

 

“My nails?” Sansa raised an eyebrow. “It’s lady-like to have nice nails.”

 

“These aren’t nails.” He pressed them into his skin, hard enough for her to see the the marks they left behind. “These are claws, little bird.”

 

“Never got the chance to use them.” Sansa’s eyes had a dark glint to them and he stared at her, trying to interpret what she meant. The image of those nails sliding down his back as she writhed beneath him startled him and he inhaled sharply.

 

“Well,” He said, because he needed to talk and get that image out of his head. “You played people in there, when you could. Played me.”

 

“How so?” She asked him curiously.

 

“I took you out of that shit, didn’t I?” He grumbled. “Played me like a fucking violin to get what you wanted, didn’t you?”

 

“I did not.” Sansa’s face flashed with anger.

 

“Oh, didn’t you?” He arched an eyebrow at her, unsure of why they were getting into the fight but voicing his concerns nonetheless. She had played him, and that was why he’d stolen her away. She’d wanted an out, and he’d been the man fool enough to fall for it.

 

“No.” Sansa folded her arms, glaring. “You helped me because it was your choice. Because you are a good man, Sandor Clegane, and no matter how much you try to hide it, you have a good heart. A tender heart. And when you saw something really fucked up, you decided to help.”

 

“I’m not good.” He bared his teeth menacingly. “Make no mistake about that.”

 

“Yes, you are.” Sansa remained firm.

 

“I’ve done things you couldn’t even dream of, girl.” He warned her and she didn’t bat an eye.

 

“And I’m sure my father did as well. And he was still the best man I ever knew.” She jutted her chin out but he spotted how her lip trembled. “You helped me because you wanted to. And I wanted your help. I didn’t try to trick you into anything. You did this of your own free will!”

 

“Free will.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Aye, free will, that’s what this was.”

 

“Well?” Some of Sansa’s surety slipped.

 

“I was a soldier.” He snapped, reminding her. “I take orders! I took Joffrey’s orders, and plenty of worse ones before that. I’ve traded one master for another, that’s all.”

 

“You have not.” Sansa looked so incensed he was surprised she wasn’t stamping her feet like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “I’m not your master! You are your own person, Sandor Clegane. If you left me right now, it would be because you wanted to. And if you carried me all the way to Winterfell, it would be because you wanted to. You’re no one’s dog, not anymore.”

 

“So I won’t be your brother’s, when I get there?” He mocked. “You think I won’t take a pretty purse for your pretty head and be on my merry way?”

 

“No.” Sansa had conviction as she said it. “I don’t think that’s what you’re going to do at all.”

 

“Oh, aye?” He squared off across from her. “And what am I going to do then? Tell me, if you’re so fucking wise, little bird.”

 

“No.” She folded her arms to mirror him. “You’ll come to the same conclusion though. I bet you will. I’d bet anything that you will.”

 

“Stupid little bird.” He grumbled, sick of her games. He stalked away and Sansa made no move to call him back to her.

 

They sat in silence until the clothes were done. He knew it was childish, and rude, not to help Sansa fold them clothes and pack them back up, but he was still fuming at her, at everything. He was irritable, he knew it. That’s why he’d lashed out so violently. But he couldn’t help it. She was so unlike anything or anyone he’d ever dealt with and he was at a loss of what to do with her. She, however, took her revenge by balling up his fresh clothes and aiming them at his head. He scowled but pulled them on wordlessly.

 

“Alright.” Sansa’s tone was biting. “Are we going to go, or do I need to trick you into that, too?” He opened his mouth to give her a sassy retort back before several things happened at once.

 

The bell above the door chimed and they both looked to see who it was.

 

Four men walked in, looking unsurprised to see a young couple doing their laundry at daybreak. One, he saw, was the gas station cashier.

 

He realized none of them had laundry of their own.

 

Sansa’s eyes went wide.

 

He had the choice to dive for her or his guns.

 

He was already on top of her when the first shot rang out.

 

Sansa yelped, but whether it was from the noise or his body slamming hers onto the cold linoleum, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was she was beneath him, undamaged. He just had to keep her that way and get them out of here in one piece. He reached for the gun that was customarily nestled in the small of his back, but it was gone. He cursed and Sansa squirmed beneath him.

 

“Keep your fucking head down!” He ordered, trying to remember where the hell his gun had gone. Sansa squirmed and tried to say something but he clapped his hand over her mouth, straining to listen. The men were approaching carefully, talking in hushed voices and creeping on light feet. His mind raced to catch up and make sense of the jumble of his thoughts.

 

So they knew who he was then. Knew a smash and grab would be too dangerous. Knew that he was deadly. Knew that he’d likely be armed, but had no idea that his arsenal was across the aisle, resting against one the washing machines. He mentally cursed himself and Sansa, for letting down his guard, since she’d dragged him here. He had no idea how to get out of this, and--

 

Sansa finally wrenched his massive hand off her mouth, glaring at him like she could light him on fire. He was about to tell her off or tell her how he felt before she got them killed, but then he noticed that she had a wild look in her eyes, and not the slightest flicker of fear. He tilted his head, wondering what the hell she was going to do now to stun him.

 

“Do you trust me?” She asked him lowly and he looked at her in bewilderment before she looked up and yelled, “Please! Please help me! He’s got a gun on me!”

 

“You--” He hissed but she made his fingers into a fake gun, jammed it into her back and wrapped his other arm around her throat. He understood then, and stood up, seemingly dragging her up with him. Her feet scrambled for purchase and her fingers desperately clawed at his hairy forearms, but he didn’t yield. He snarled at the men, all who stopped, training their guns on him.

 

“Please.” Sansa gasped. “Did Joffrey send you? Please save me.”

 

“You the Stark bitch then?” The leader, a man with long, shaggy hair and beady eyes, gave her a skeptical look. Sandor growled and Sansa stomped on his foot.

 

“Yes, please, help me. He kidnapped me. He’s been dragging me across the country, I’ve been trying to escape, please help me.” Sansa pleaded.

 

“They said you’d ran off.” The man from the gas station said boldly, aiming his pistol at Sandor’s forehead. Sansa stretched to try and block it.

 

“No, he kidnapped me. I was in love with Joffrey and this… This animal… Got jealous. Thought I loved him or something.” Sansa gave a hollow little laugh. “Isn’t that crazy? He’s a fucking crazy person, that’s why he took me. Please, don’t hurt me. I want to go home to Joffrey. I want to go back to him. He’ll be so grateful for my return, I promise.”

 

“Pay good too.” The leader informed her and Sandor noticed the patches on the man’s kutte, a small club that must’ve decided to be loyal to Joffrey. He mentally berated himself for getting so close to their territory as he dragged Sansa back, trying to get close to the bag. Sansa kept the men talking, telling them her story of woe while he tried to decide how they were going to make it out of here alive.

 

It was a good story, he thought vaguely as he took note of the lack of cameras. She spun a yarn of a young girl and boy in love, and when her father disapproved and tried to kill Joffrey, he’d killed him in self defense so that he could stay with his one true love. Sansa proclaimed her love for Joffrey, her devastation at being taken from him, and doubled down on her pleas that they take her alive and kill her kidnapper.

 

Then, without warning, he yanked her down behind the machine, hand plunging inside the bag. She scrambled to get behind him and when the men came running, Sandor shot each in the head from his position on the floor. Sansa shrieked at only the first gun shot when the red mist exploded above them, but was curiously silent for each that came next. It was only six shots total, killing two of the men with bullets between the eyes, hitting another in the neck and again in the head as he staggered, and then clipping one man in the shoulder. When he’d stumbled back, clutching the wound, Sandor had enough time to stand up and shoot him in the back of the head. Only then did he allow himself to breathe.

 

“It’s so… Messy.” Sansa’s voice behind him was tiny and dazed and he whipped around, looking down at her in astonishment and horror.

 

“Sansa,” He breathed and she looked up at him, using a trembling hand to wipe away a bit of blood splatter that had gotten on her forehead. When she brought it away and looked down at it, her blue eyes glazed over, like a summer sky gone hazy on a humid day. He knew the look of shock and quickly set down his gun, approaching her with his hands out to show her he wasn’t dangerous.

 

“I didn’t think it’d be messy.” Sansa told the laundry machine vaguely, looking past her hands. “It’s just… Bullet to the brain, and… Squish.”

 

“Sansa.” He repeated, a little urgently. She was completely unharmed, he noted with relief that make his hips ache as the tension released. “Sansa, we have to go. Do you have everything?”

 

“Yes.” She held up his backpack of guns, not looking at it. “Yeah, all the babies are in here. Got 'um, sarge.” He struggled to keep his calm. She was slipping deeper into shock.

 

“Good.” He pulled her to her feet and pulled her face to his chest to shield her from what she’d see. “Put your feet on mine, there you go. Don’t look, I mean it. Don’t look. Ok, I’m going to take you to the alley out back. You stay there, ok? You see someone, you shoot them. Do not ask questions, little bird. You stay right there.” He ordered, carefully moving them through the carnage. Sansa kept her face pressed to his chest and after a moment, he felt the wetness seep through. She was crying then, he realized.

 

There was no time to dry her tears. He deposited her, a little unceremoniously, outside on the stoop, tucking her away into a dark corner and pressing a gun into her hands. He looked at her and hesitated, wavering between protecting her and making sure that they got away. Then she looked down at the gun with eyes that still didn’t see, and slipped her finger around the trigger.

 

“This one pulls left.” She was repeating his words back to him hollowly. “Need a strong grip, little bird. Aim and shoot, don’t hesitate.”

 

“That’s right.” He told her, dropping down and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “And shoot everyone that isn’t me, ok?”

 

Then he darted back inside. He retrieved Sansa’s bag full of clothes, inordinately happy that her clean clothes hadn’t been soiled. He swung it on and then looked around, trying to decide what to do. Prints weren’t his concern. So many hands touched the machines that they’d be covered. He needed to do something about the bodies and as he stared at them, an idea came to mind. He found a towel, soaked it in blood, and went to the wall. When he was done, he stepped back and looked in approval at his work.

 

A roaring Lannister lion, through crudely drawn, glittered with the fresh blood. He tossed the rag aside and nodded at the symbol. Let the police think it was nothing more than another battle between bikers. Let the hammer fall on the Lannisters, while he spirited the bird further north. He made up his mind then, as he raced back outside. It was time for him to get her home. He couldn’t take any more risks with her.

 

When he got outside, Sansa aimed the gun at him head. He skidded to a stop, putting his hands up. For a second, it seemed as though she’d forgotten everything and she was going to shoot. Then, slowly, she lowered it. He went to take it back, but then she put it in the small of her back, pulling her tee-shirt over it. He ignored the jolt to his groin and went to her.

 

“Time to fly.” She whispered, taking his hand and he used the other to wipe her forehead clean of the blood. Then he pulled her to his bike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I absolutely have to say that each chapter I think wow I can not love these people any more and then each chapter I love you more and more!!!! Please let me know what you think of this chapter, because there had to be action some time, right?


	14. I Found, Amber Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys honestly truly all I can say is that you all continuously blow me away with everything you do to support this fic. From reviews to kudos to just reading and sharing on tumblr, everything you all do is so wonderful. I feel so blessed to share this with you all, and know that this fic would not exist without everything that you all do! thank you!!!!

Sansa didn’t even realize she hadn’t slept for over a day until she awoke to find Sandor hovering over her. She was on what only could’ve been a bed. He was muttering something and his grey eyes looked wild behind the dark beard that was overtaking his face, like nature overtook a ruin. Sansa thought her simile funny and fitting, and she reached up for him.

 

“Not ruined.” She muttered, but ruins were beautiful too, weren’t they? They had a sort of haunted beauty and that’s what he was, wasn’t he? A haunted, beautiful man.

 

“Little bird.” His voice was far away, the distant rumble of thunder that promised rain. Rain to clean. What needed cleaning? What was dirty?

 

She was. She was the dirty one. She remembered the blood, the way it had spread out so quickly from the man’s skull. How it clung to her hair and her skin. Her breath felt short as she remembered the guns, the men that died in the laundromat. She tried to get her emotions under control but there was no use and suddenly she was thrashing, screaming.

 

“Sandor! Sandor! Sandor!”

 

“Little bird.” He was clutching her tightly to her chest and she wasn’t sure why she was sobbing, only that she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t get close enough to him, desperately trying to somehow escape into him. He could protect her. He’d help her forget. He could do something, anything. “Let it out.” He ordered, stroking her hair, his fingers clumsy and unsure.  

 

“They, they, they,” She stammered, still sobbing, and his large palm encompassed the back of her head, pulling her in close.

 

“They’re never going to hurt you.” He promised her thickly and she tried to keep breathing but it was almost impossible. She knew the signs of shock, but she’d never experienced them. The only thing she could do was cling to Sandor as tightly as possible and hope that he would be the ship to get her across the vast depths of her terror. He hushed her, singing something.

 

She realized, after a moment, what the lyrics were. It was the song she’d sung to him, weeks and months ago. The lyrics were familiar to her, a comfy sweater one pulled on when sad or lonely. It was her song, her favorite one, and though his version wasn’t filled with guitars and drums, she somehow liked it best when it came in his deep, gravelly voice. It was good coming from him. _The girl from the north country,_ he half sing, half whispered. _She was once a true love of mine._

 

“Did you…” It seemed to take a great deal of effort for her to speak coherent sentences, but thinking about Sandor listening to the song she’d sang to him was more soothing than hearing gunshots reverberate through her skull. “Listen to it? Did you… Like… It?”

 

“Aye.” He was still stroking her hair. “I did, little bird. I liked it a lot. Good song. You got any other recommendations in there?”  

 

“Lots.” Sansa gave a deep, shuddering breath, trying to drag herself back into normalcy. “Need… An ipod, or something.”

 

“Yeah.” He leaned back and looked her over carefully, like he was checking her for cracks in her fragile demeanor. But Sansa didn’t feel so delicate anymore. She was made of stronger stuff now. Her skin had turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.

 

“Are we…” Her voice cracked.

 

“Safe?” He cupped her cheek tenderly. “Yes, little bird, it’s alright. They’re dead.” She shuddered, but whatever she’d been about to ask, that hadn’t been it. She’d wanted to ask him something else, and she wasn’t exactly sure what, but now the chance was gone and she was thinking about dead men again, about how their brains had splattered over the walls, just how much they bled. Did they always bleed so much? Why was it everything and nothing like the movies?

 

“I--” She launched herself off the bed when she felt her mouth start to salivate. She knew that sign well enough. She darted for the wastebasket in the corner of the room, thinking it a better chance than the bathroom and not wanting to vomit all over the walls. She heaved into the basket, throwing up with meager amount of food she did have in her stomach. The granola bar mocked her with its appearance.

 

“Sansa.” Sandor came behind her, helping her tie her hair up while she retched. “Alright, fucking hells girl, get it out then. Breathe, do you hear me?”

 

“Yes.” She whispered, trembling with the force of her nausea. Every time she remembered why she was in shock, the urge to vomit nearly overwhelmed her again.

 

“Little bird,” His voice was slow and hesitant. “Was that… Was that the first you saw…”

 

“Yes.” She repeated, voice no higher than it was before. Why was she whispering? Whispering felt safe. Whispering felt secure. No one could find you when you whispered, wasn’t that what all the children believed? “I’d never even seen a… A… Body… Before.”

 

It was true, she recalled, as Sandor cursed behind her, muttering things like ‘damnable honor filled old man’ and ‘delicate, pure girl’. Her father had shielded them all from the worst part of club life. She hadn’t been naive of course. She’d grown up to the sounds of target practice and bikes in the garage. But he’d never let his daughters see a dead body, not even at funerals. Certainly not this level of violence.

 

When she was finally done throwing up, she began to shake, cold. Sandor cursed again then and wrapped her in a blanket. He dragged her onto his lap and began to rock back and forth, humming a different song. It reminded Sansa of when her mother had rocked her to sleep as a little girl, and she closed her eyes, trying to relax and remember how to calm down.

 

She vaguely realized that Sandor was trying to feed her water and some trail mix.  She obediently followed his orders until the room stopped feeling like it was spinning. Her vision came back into focus and noises gradually became clearer, until she finally felt just about normal. She took a deep breath and settled back into him a little more securely, feeling the warmth of his body radiate through the blanket.

 

“Sansa,” He said softly, hesitantly. She responded by burrowing deeper into the blankets. It felt good there. It felt safe. It felt right. “Sansa, I wanted… Wondered… If… If you’d like, you could… Call. Your brothers, or home, or someone.” He said it a jumbled rush, but Sansa went rigid.

 

She didn’t know how to respond. Her mind was racing. She could hear her mother’s voice again, or Robb’s. Tell them she was alright. Ask them to come get her, wherever she was. She could tell them so much, if she could just talk to them. She tried to figure out what she was going to say and found that her mouth had gone drier than a cotton ball. Sandor waited for her to speak.

 

“I don’t…” She had no idea what to do. She hardly remembered their numbers anymore. They’d always had burner cells, so that things weren’t traceable. Whenever they’d change, they’d tell her so that she could still reach them. She’d been the only one of her family with a steady phone number when she went to college. Joffrey had taken her phone from her when she’d been taken, and with it, her family. “I don’t know their numbers. Not anymore. I don’t know how… To call them.”

 

“Ah.” She was surprised that it looked like he understood so easily. “I thought… Oh, fuck whatever I thought. Doesn’t matter.”

 

“No.” She knew what this gesture was. “You were trying to make me feel better. And Sandor, I… Thank you. It means everything.”

 

“I’m meant to keep you safe.” His voice broke a little bit. “How the fuck do I do that when all I’m going to do is break you?”

 

“I’m not so breakable.” Sansa patted his cheek and thought about the girl she once was. Filled with stories and dreams and hopes. She’d thought it would be so easy to conquer the world. She believed in true love, in fairy tales, in happy ever after. But Sansa knew better now. Blood always had to be spilled. “You’re not going to break me, you’re going to make me stronger.”

 

“You’re the most valuable thing I’ve ever held.” He said it like he meant it, arms cradled gently around her head, not caging her but shielding, like she needed his protection.

 

She was silent, unsure of what else to say. Unsure if there was anything else to say. And Sandor was silent was as well, both of them atop a shitty bed, wrapped in a blanket likely filled with fleas and other critters. Sansa didn’t care. It felt right. After a few minutes of silence she realized how quiet Sandor had gone and when she looked up, she found his eyes closed and breathing even. She smiled, wondering if he even realized that he was dozing while sitting up. Where had he learned to do that?

 

“Sandor.” She whispered, crawling out of his arms. “Sandor, go to sleep.” He’d probably stayed awake for the day after the shooting, driving her frantically. He’d gotten her to safety, and he had to be exhausted. He gave some incoherent protests against it as Sansa gently pushed him over so he toppled into the pillows. “It’s ok, it’s ok. I’ll be fine. I can watch out for myself. I’ll shoot anyone that isn’t you, I remember.”

 

She watched as he fell asleep, smiling slightly. It seemed like all men fell asleep the same way. His gruff features relaxed into softness and his breath evened out until he was calm. It reminded her of watching Rickon fall asleep, how his little snarl would become the sweet face of the innocent boy he was. It was her favorite thing, to see him when he wasn’t try to destroy things. She wondered if Sandor and Rickon would get along well. A small part of her wondered if Sandor liked children at all.

 

While he slept, she finished pecking through her trail mix and sipping water. She found it was becoming easier and easier to put things in a box. Her box of Joffrey, she’d gotten to calling it in her head. A box of horrors. Things she would lock away and forget. She chuckled to herself, thinking about the heyday that Margaery, a college friend, would have. She’d been a psych major, and she’d commented numerous times on all the mental conditions Sansa had. Sansa had always laughed, but never explained to her that she didn’t have complexes or traumas. She had secrets, ones she’d never tell.

 

She drew while Sandor slept. She remembered his offhand remark that she draw him a new tattoo, and she had an idea now of what she’d do. He’d liked what she’d been doing before something had happened. She didn’t let herself think about what that thing was. In the box. Shut the lid. Hide the horrors. Block it out and focus on the here and the now.

 

She drew the wolf girl again. This time she used all her skills, all her focus. She wanted to take the vision she had in her head and translate it exactly to paper. She was aware, more acutely than ever, that if he chose to put this on his skin, it would remain there forever. So she took her time, was neat and meticulous, occasionally looking up to make that Sandor still slept.

 

The head of a wolf covered that of a girl. It was Lady, but larger and more wolf-ish. Her fangs were bared and her snout turned red with blood that dripped from her teeth. The girl below her had only half her face showing, but her lips played at a little smirk, almost as if to hint that she and the wolf were one, and she was not scared of being a killer either. Her arms were crossed in front of her chest, with one hand raised, as if to catch the blood dripping from the wolf. Nails, black, and long, gripped into her arm. Her long hair covered naked shoulders and her chest, all delicate and thin lines. Sansa drew and Sandor slept.

 

“How… Long?” He startled her when when he sat up with some difficulty. She looked up at him and he just blinked at her, blearily. She realized that it was the first she’d seen him not instantly reach for a gun or assume the world was crashing down around him. She thought this felt like a sort of trust between them and wanted to smile at that. She hoped he trusted her like she did him.

 

“A couple hours.” She said, when it had been closer to several. She didn’t want to wake him. He gave her a stern look, sitting up and yanking his hair back. It was getting long and several times she’d idly considered braiding it to see if he’d let her.

 

“And you haven’t eaten?” He demanded, reaching for his flannel. It had to be getting late, since the sunlight that streamed through the shades had gradually faded, until Sansa had needed to flip on a lamp to be able to keep drawing.

 

“I had the trail mix.” She assured him and he glared.

 

“That’s fucking bird food.”

 

“I’m a little bird.” Sansa chirped and he stared at her like he hadn’t expected her to make a joke. Then he shook his head and reached for his massive black boots.

 

‘Get dressed. We need to go. We’ve been here too long anyways.” He said gruffly and Sansa rose, stretching out her aching hips. She’d sat too long, and now she was going to sit more.

 

“I need to run or something.” She said wistfully. Sandor stopped and gave her a baleful look.

 

“All we do is run.”

 

“I mean actually.” She threw a pillow at him. “I feel like I sit and I sleep and I ride. I need to do squats or pushups or something.”

 

“Be my guest.” He handed her the backpacks. “But you’ll do it when we’re safe of this godforsaken state.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Sansa remembered she had no clue at all when they were any longer. “Where are we anymore? I’m all turned about.”

 

“New Mexico.” He spat it out. “But we’re halfway to Colorado, little bird, and we’re not stopping till we’re there. I want you out.”

 

“Colorado.” Sansa said it with a note of wonder. If NorCal was Winterfell and home, and SoCal was Joffrey and pain, Colorado was freedom and wonder. “I went to school in Colorado.”

 

“What?” Sandor stopped packing things up to look at her in astonishment.

 

“College.” She told him, lost in her memories. “Colorado Springs.” She recalled her small dorm and the uncomfortable twin sized bed that she’d lofted, and how even inches from the ceiling it’d been comfortable in that it had been her own place. She thought about Saturday football games, tailgates beneath a robins egg blue sky. She remembered the walk across campus, lost in her music and thoughts, a little rhythm that had been all her, and no one else. She’d been a different Sansa there too.

 

“Oh.” For some reason, he looked annoyed. “Well, we’re not going there, so don’t get that in your pretty little head, got it?”

 

“Why do you do that?” She questioned, as he resumed packing, gathering the few meager belongings they had scattered around the room.

 

“Do what?” He asked, bitingly.

 

“Get angry when I talk about school.” She pointed out. “You always get so mad when I bring it up. You get mad when I bring a lot of things up.”

 

“I’m an angry human.” The softness he’d had before was gone now and her harsh protector had returned. She didn’t know if she loved it or hated it.

 

“No, you’re just complicated and scared and tired and hungry and you’re in the middle of New Mexico with a girl that’s part captive part fugitive, and…” She trailed off, wondering if she’d pushed it too far. But he couldn’t go from calling her precious to snapping in her face. He couldn’t, not anymore. They’d gone through too much together for that, after all this time.

 

“We need to leave.” He growled, glaring.

 

“Sandor.” She had to make one last stand, here. He looked at her, like he was going to erupt yet again, so she crossed the room to him and reached up to take his face in her hands. After a pause, she rolled up onto the tips of her toes, pulling his head down so that her lips could reach his forehead. For a second, they both hovered there, neither pulling away. Then Sansa dropped back down.

 

“Little bird…” He muttered, broken.

 

“I know.” She did, for once. She knew he needed time. He wasn’t the type who could open up in a night. He had too many secrets, too many hurts. Too much pain, and he had layers of it to sort through. But she decided that she was going to see this through. He could get her to safety. She was going to heal him.

 

“Aye.” He whispered, then stepped back. He went to grab the small gun off the table, but Sansa stilled his hand and took it in her own, staring at the black, ugly thing. Then, carefully, she tucked it into the small of her back, hiding it beneath her shirt. She looked at him and after a second, he nodded in approval. Their lesson had been learned. She took his hand.

 

“Thank you.” She whispered and it was for everything that they’d been through already, and everything they still had yet to face.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they reached the mountains of Colorado, it was almost like a road trip. An exhausting road trip that included detours, doubling back, shitty motels, and a lot of fast food. But when Sansa sat on the back of his bike and watched the mountains rise and fall, enfolding them like the arms of a lover, she could almost forget how they’d gotten there and just appreciate that the scenery around them. Sansa loved winding through the cracks and crevices. It felt safe. She felt hidden.

 

She and Sandor even found a measure of peace with each other. They knew each other well enough now that they could often say what they needed to with just a look. They’d had only one little fight, and Sansa wasn’t sure if she could truly call it such, when he’d made a snide remark about the story she’d told the men they’d killed in New Mexico.

 

“A real good fairytale,” He’d sneered. “A regular Romeo and Juliet, you said. You miss that, little bird? Any truth in those words?”

 

“Romeo and Juliet were idiots.” She’d said icily, fighting to control her anger with him. “And I’ve always preferred the story of Bonnie and Clyde besides.”  

 

That had stopped him and for a long moment he’d stared at her. Then he’d ducked his head, muttering something that she didn’t quite catch, and from then on he seemed content to no longer question her motives regarding him and their escape.

 

She thought often on those motives. Sitting on the back of a bike and watching the sites roll past afforded only so much distraction. She had to find things to distract her and first, it was memory games. She went back to grade school and did her 50 states, first in order, then back on a map. She did capitals, but those were more difficult than she remembered and when she’d once asked Sandor what the capital of South Dakota was, he’d given her a baffled look.

 

She did the Spanish alphabet, and counted to 100. She did as many characters from Harry Potter as she could remember. All of Stephen King’s works, from best to worst. She tried to recall the papers she’d written on the classics. She did a fruit for every letter of the alphabet, then vegetables. She felt like she was going insane by the time she reached zucchini.

 

So she decided it would be easier to think about things that made her happy. That always led her back to him. Sometimes she lost herself in wild daydreams about what they could be if he’d let her in. They always began with him opening up to her, telling her his secrets in some motel room. Sansa made it a little nicer in her fantasies, and he never swore. He would cry and tell her everything. Then he’d take her softly by the hand and kiss her passionately. She would kiss him back and they would whisper sweet promises to each other until they fell back into the bed and undressed.

 

Other times she thought about him in Winterfell. She pictured him running wild with Rickon through the woods. They were kindred spirits, she knew, and would get along well. He’d sit at Robb’s table and become a wolf, for her, for him, for them. Her mother would love him, eyes glistening as she told Sansa how much he was like her father, how he would have been so proud of Sansa and how much he would loved Sandor.

 

And then there were the mornings when the first light was breaking across the mountains and she dreamed about owning a log cabin high in one of them. It would be a beautiful, three story thing. Sandor would build it with his own hands, and fill it with windows so that she had lots of light. She would decorate the inside to her taste and then he would carry her across the threshold and there they would have children and have a life far away from guns and bikes.

 

She had named them, these phantom children. Two boys and a girl, maybe two. Whatever he wanted. Girls with red hair like her, and boys with grey eyes like him. They would be, by turns, wild and funny and sweet. He’d make a good father, firm but loving, and none of their children would bat an eye at his scars. Sansa would love them all fiercely and protect them. Sometimes she only had to close her eyes and see the scene, them having hot chocolate in front of a fireplace.

 

They didn’t have any other issues, except for when a state trooper trailed them for several miles. Sansa had dug her nails so tightly into Sandor’s ribs that he’d had the little half moon marks for a full day. But it had passed, and so did more and more miles between her and Joffrey. That was why she was bewildered when the nightmares began, so vivid she woke screaming.

 

_“So, Sansa,” Joffrey purred, as his hands went round her throat. She tried to scream but it was futile. He’d only choke her harder._

_“Please.” She rasped. “Don’t… . Hurt… Me…”_

_“I won’t hurt you.” His grip tightened. “I won’t hurt you, Sansa. Nothing that you don’t deserve, do you hear me? You like this, don’t you?”_

_Air was getting hard to come by. She remembered that she was a fighter, a survivor, and she tried to strike out at him, but he had too many hands, and he held her down with ease. He leered above her and the world was going dark around the edges of her vision. She kept struggling, but she was getting weaker and weaker, and then just when she thought it was all going to fade to black, Joffrey released her._

_“Help…” She rasped but nobody came. No one knew where she was, no one cared._

_“Look, Sansa, look.” Joffrey called, from what sounded like far away. Pain radiated through her neck as she turned towards the sound of his voice and he smiled grandly at her. It was a horrible thing, grotesque and cruel, but not so awful as what she beheld behind him._

_It was a row of heads and she was screaming, so loudly she thought the world had to be shattered around her, but it didn’t end. She saw her father, skin slipping off his bright white cheekbones. Robb’s head, blue eyes unseeing, curls matted with blood. Jon’s long, serious face had not changed in death, sadness personified. Her mother’s beautiful face was no more, gaunt, hollow, and greying. Arya looked like she was still yelling, mouth unhinged beyond natural, teeth loose. Bran and Rickon were forever silent, eyes unseeing, blank and vacant._

_Sansa kept screaming, praying for someone, anyone to take her from this hell. She tried not to see, not to see anything at all, but there was no point. She was doomed to stay here forever and she wanted to die, be there in the row of the dead instead of here with Joffrey and she kept screaming, kept screaming, kept screaming until the world went black._

She was still screaming when Sandor woke up her up. He had to shake her violently, making her teeth rattle and her neck hurt. She tried to cut her voice off, lest anyone think that she was being harmed, but it wasn’t so easy. She went with sobbing instead and in a blink of an eye, his arms were around her, shielding her gently from the world of her mind.

 

“It’s alright, it’s alright…” He was whispering soothingly. “It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright. I’ve got you. You’re alright now little bird, you’re alright. I’ve got you now.”

 

She tried to get control of herself but it was not easily done after her dreams. It took everything in her to just keep breathing, to not spiral into a panic attack. The first night of the nightmares, she’d done just that. Sandor had nearly panicked himself trying to get her to calm down. It was getting easier to control the aftermath, but the dreams were just as awful as they’d been in the start.

 

“Why,” She whispered more to his armpit than to Sandor himself. “Does it seem so real? Why do they seem so… Lifelike?”

 

“They’re just dreams, little bird.” He petted her hair. He knew that was a good way to calm her down and Sansa clung tighter to him. “Not real.”

 

“They seem so real.” Sansa shuddered, recalling the glassy eyes of her mother’s head. “I can remember every single thing about them.”

 

“Shush, it’s alright.” One arm pressed to her back, massive and reassuring. “You’re alright. You’re with me Sansa, not him.”

 

“I know.” That’s why she always sought him out, when the nightmares came. He once told her that she was what brought him back from his own anxiety. Sansa wondered if he knew he returned the favor.

 

“Do you want to tell me?” He asked, hesitantly. “What they’re about? That… Helped, sometimes, with the guys I knew.”

 

“Why am I having them?” She asked him instead, wondering if he was going to tell her about his time in the military. He’d alluded to it, several times, but he’d never spoken outright on what exactly he did, or what he learned, or how he’d gone from military to here.

 

“Stress.” He sounded guilty. “I’ve put you under a lot of stress, little bird, and I’m sorry.”

 

“You saved me.” Sansa reminded him emphatically, squeezing around his waist. “You’ve done more for me than anyone else.”

 

“I’ve given you a fuck ton of trauma, more like.” He muttered darkly.

 

“You haven’t even approached Arya level trauma yet. Why are they happening now?” She pressed. “How can I make them stop?”

 

“I don't know.” He admitted. He was back to working his fingers through the tangles her hair had accumulated during her restless sleep. “Guys in my unit use to say that the nightmares were worse when they were home than when we were in the field. When you’re running for your life, your mind, it shuts down to the vital functions only. Keep you alive. No time for anything else. But when you’re safe, it has time to remember.”

 

“Oh.” That made sense. She felt safer with each passing day, especially since Sandor had begun to arm her. As they traveled deeper into the mountains and it got colder, more layers could hide more weapons. Sansa had a gun and a neat little switchblade she was getting familiar with. And she wasn’t in such a fog of exhaustion and fear anymore; she knew that if Joffrey came, not only would Sandor die from letting him get to her, but that she could kill him if he did.

 

“I don’t know how to make them go away.” He told her, a little helpless and Sansa traced patterns on his back. She didn’t want to close her eyes to go back to sleep. Every time she did, a new head appeared on the backs of her eyelids.

 

“Can I just… Not sleep?” She requested slowly and he frowned slightly but nodded.

 

“Sure.”

 

“Tell me about these.” Sansa traced the tattoos on his forearms. She knew now, how they climbed up his forearms and across his shoulder blades. She knew what they looked like, and she’d spent each time trying to mimic them to know how they’d been inked into his skin. But she didn’t know what they meant, not to Sandor. She didn’t know the stories.

 

“They’re just tattoos, little bird.” He settled back against the headboard, but he didn’t make any more to take her off his lap. Sansa liked that. She liked that he seemed to want her weight on him. She curled onto his chest and traced the harsh black lines.

 

“Tell me anyways.”  

 

“Fine.” He sighed and meant for it to sound annoyed, but it seemed more contented, at least to Sansa’s ears. He waited until she traced the tattoo that covered most of his bicep; snarling hounds, emerging from smoke. Then he told her the story. “I got that after my second deployment. Dogs are more loyal than fucking people, you know that. I had a dog over there--”

 

“Havoc?” She remembered that. She tried to remember all the little bits of information she could about him. It wasn’t hard when she had so few.

 

“Aye, him.” If he was surprised that she recalled it, he didn’t let it show in his voice. “No matter the bullshit we got sent into, Havoc got us out. He was a better soldier than half my men, and twice as smart. He deserved that honor, I guess. Some guys get insignias and words and shit. That didn’t feel like me.”

 

“Why did you get them so angry?” Sansa asked him, staring into the black eyes of the raging dogs. Three of them in the smoke.

 

“I’m fucking angry.”

 

“Have you always been so angry?” Sansa let her hands drift up his arm towards his shoulder blade. There he had a dagger, with a celtic knot set in the hilt and some words below it in what she suspected was gaelic. It was the most discolored of his tattoos.  

 

“Aye.” He seemed a little amused. “I’m a big, angry, Scottish cunt, little bird, and I always have been. Always fucking will be.”

 

“Even when you got this?” She pressed the center of the knot, wishing that it was like a mythical legend and he would magically open up before her.

 

“Aye, even then. It’s the first, can you tell?” He asked her and Sansa relished the way his chest rumbled when he spoke, when his burr got a little deeper.

 

“Yes.” She whispered. “It’s fading.”

 

“Cause it was shite work. Got it by some dodgy tweaker in a shitty little flat when I was 19. Pretty late for my group, but same bad idea. A fucking dagger, thinking I was some tough lad. Didn’t know anything about anything back then. Not a fucking clue.”

 

“I like it.” Sansa told him and he chuckled. “What do the words mean?”

 

“It’s an old proverb.” He said quietly and Sansa traced the unfamiliar words, wishing that they would somehow rearrange themselves into something that she understood. But they stubbornly remained untranslatable and she waited for him to tell her or not. “A bad wound may heal but a bad name will kill.”

 

“What does it mean?” Sansa didn’t understand why the saying filled her with dread and her hands instinctively went for his face, for his scarred cheek.

 

“You tell me.” He stated calmly and she tried to puzzle it out. The bad wound was easy enough, when she felt the ruined skin beneath her fingertips. And it had healed, even if it had left him scarred. Sansa didn’t even think the scar was ugly anymore. Now it was so intrinsically tied up in him that she could hardly separate one from the other. It felt wrong to picture him any other way.

 

“You healed.” She said softly, running a thumb over his cheekbone. “But you don’t have a bad name, I don’t think. Is it going to kill you? Are you the killer? What do you mean by it?”

 

“I’m a Clegane.” His voice sounded thick and heavy, full of an emotion she wasn’t sure she’d ever understand. “That’s as bad a name as any.”

 

“No it’s not.” Sansa remembered their conversation from before, when she’d told him about the names of her family members and what they meant. “You don’t even know what Sandor means.”

 

“It means a big, angry, Scottish cunt.” He said flatly and Sansa huffed in confusion and irritation.

 

“Your name won’t kill you.” She declared. “I won’t let it.”

 

“Aye, and a terrifying force of nature you are.” He mocked gently and Sansa kicked her feet, making contact with his shin and making him swear loudly.

 

“You’re a good man.” She scolded and he kept silent, but his fingers were digging into her arms and hips, likely to leave marks. “And you’ve done good things. You stopped Joffrey from raping me, and…” She paused, then turned her face up to his. “How did you stop him from raping me until he had my brothers? He wasn’t the type to just stop and not do something so… Evil… Because you asked nicely.”

 

“Maybe I didn’t ask nicely.” He said monotonously and Sansa’s frown deepened.

 

“What did you do?” She questioned him.

 

“You don’t want to know.” He retorted. “It’s just going to add color to your nightmares.”

 

“Tell me.” Sansa insisted. “I need to know. I want to know. You saved my life. I want to know how you did it, Sandor. I need to know.”

 

“I told him,” Sandor’s eyes went blank and distant, like he was removing himself from the situation. “That raping you would’ve been sweet in and of itself, but if he made you wait, made you fear him and dread it every single day, it would only make it better. And if he could hurt you, in front of your brothers, he could hurt you and them and everyone. That amount of pain, and him as the cause of all of it? He couldn’t resist such a thing. I just convinced him to wait.”

 

“How…” Sansa was looking at him in abject horror. “How did you know to tell him that? Know that would… Excite him?” Her voice broke and he looked down at her with emotionless eyes.

 

“I know such men. I grew up with one.” He reminded her.

 

“Would he have done that?” Sansa asked, trying desperately to block out images of Sandor-- her Sandor-- being hurt so badly so young by a monster.  

 

“No.” Sandor’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “He would’ve done worse.”

 

“Oh.” Sansa threw her arms around him and held him close. He didn’t move for a long couple moments, as if confused by her actions before he slowly wrapped his arms around her and began to rock her back and forth. Sansa clung to him and tried to reassure him as much as he reassured her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously you guys, everything that this fic is comes from your support. any thoughts you may have while reading, or quotes you like, or just anything in general, please share. it warms my heart and soul, and it makes the writing all the more lovely!


	15. Loverboy, Mattis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all of you people are amazing and wonderful thank you thank you thank you
> 
> also this chapter is a bit more PG-13 for reasons and such so just, you know, heads up? ok hope you all enjoy!

Sandor couldn’t help a small smile as he watched her. They’d stopped high above an overpass in the mountains to eat their lunch, and Sansa was looking out over the stunning vista, beaming. Her boots were near tatters, and the jeans she wore were fading and ripping from heavy use. She wore a faded Elvis tee-shirt that had actually made him groan aloud when she bought it in some backcountry gas station, with his flannel over it. She’d discarded her jacket when they stopped, basking in the rays of sun that fell down.

 

She had bound her dark hair up in a braid and buried it beneath her beanie. She had glared and raged and nearly cried when he had ordered her to keep dyeing it, but he wasn’t taking any chances. She threatened to castrate him if the shade stopped washing out. He watched the news while she slept, waiting for the moment they were named fugitives. But so far that hadn’t happened, and here they were in the mountains, having a bag of chips and sandwiches with dry bread and bologna. But she always hid her hair now, and he wished he could tell her he missed the auburn shade as much as she did.

 

She was starting to fill out again, but she was still so damned light. Her nightmares would usually abate if she fell asleep with him, so they’d developed a routine of crawling into bed together and she’d squeeze herself into his side, hunkering down. It made him smile, to think about the times when he had slept in a chair rather than beside her, as if he was scared what she might do in her sleep. Turns out she threw elbows and would sometimes talk, muttering nonsense at him while he worked not to laugh.

 

The bags beneath her eyes persisted and he’d trade his left hand to see her to not flinch at unexpected sounds or bolt upright at sirens. He wished he could protect her more, protect her better. He kept oscillating between determinedly shoving her out and abruptly letting her in. Part of him thought to leave her on the side of the highway and speed away from her as fast as he could and the other part wanted to kneel on that same damn highway and promise to never leave her side.

 

“Look!” She called, waving her sandwich. He watched as crumbs flew off it, but Sansa was not paying attention in the slightest. “Look at how pretty it is!”

 

“I see, little bird.” He said back, taking another handful of chips. Sansa sighed, a long exhale that blew all her breath out, and smiled.

 

“This is beautiful. There’s nothing more beautiful than this spot right here.” She declared and he held his tongue, hiding a smile. If only she knew.

 

“Eat.” He ordered her instead.”You need to eat. I’m not stopping in two hours when you get hungry again, so come on. Sit. Eat.”

 

“Fine.” Sansa’s eyes sparked as she walked back towards him, a little skip in her step. “But how could I be hungry, when this bologna is so filling and satisfying?”

 

“Do you not want one?” He asked her with an arched eyebrow and Sansa crashed into him like she was drunk, laughing.

 

“No, I do.” She promised him, smiling as she bounced off him and sat down, just a bit too close to him. He frowned down at her as she obligingly bit into her sandwich before giving him a dazzling, bread and bologna filled grin. “See?”

 

“Alright.” He gave her a little shove on her shoulder. “Enough of that. Eat, and quit your fucking sassing, before I leave you here.”

 

“Not a bad place to be left.” She said thoughtfully, drawing her knees up and looking out over the mountains and trees and valleys.

 

“Not too shitty.” He agreed and Sansa was silent, taking a handful of chips.

 

“Is it prettier than Scotland?” She asked him abruptly and he frowned, glancing down at her. She was steadfastly gazing out at the mountains.

 

“Nah, just… Different.” He said lamely. “There’s no good thing to compare to Scotland. There’s nothing else like it, not really.”

 

“What was it like?” Sansa asked, eyes tracking a raven that flew overhead.

 

“Cold. Rainy. Home.” He said flatly. “It wasn’t.... Beautiful. At least, not to me. Not after everything that fucking happened.”

 

“Alright.” Sansa said softly, resting a hand on his forearm. “You don’t have to tell me more. Can I draw some? Would you mind?”

 

“No, go ahead.” He said darkly and Sansa pulled her notebook from the bag, and a pen. He almost smiled to realize she was nearing the end of the pages, nearly filled the thing with doodles and drawings. She flipped to one of the last pages, a clean sheet. She glanced up at the landscape, then bent her head down on the page. After a few moments, she was lost to him.

 

He finished off the chips and watched her draw for a moment. She was someone else entirely here, no longer Sansa but just as artist, lost in her craft. She would look up and down, at her work then at her subject, until reality seemed to bleed onto her paper. It was in these moments that he wasn’t quite sure how he come to be before her and was at an even greater loss of what he would do after her.

 

A few cars rattled past, but none so much as slowed at the sight of a man and a girl sitting on a rickety picnic table atop a tourist outlook. Sandor didn’t have to worry, half an eye on her, half on the slowing traffic. The sun was setting behind the peaks and casting a chill in the air. He’d need his coat soon. He was wondering how much further they’d make it when Sansa shifted beside him.

 

“Alright, I’ll be done.” She said softly, looking down at the drawing she’d done. It was a pretty landscape, and she’d even caught the way leaves blew through the brisk wind.

 

“Getting cold.” He observed, as she tucked the notebook safely back into her backpack.

 

“You’re warm.” She gave him a bright smile and he’d be damned if his mouth didn’t twitch up in response to her sweetness.

 

“Let’s go.” He ordered and she didn’t protest in the slightest. After a moment, they were both on the back of the bike. He found them a shitty motel not two hours later, and it wasn’t the worst they’d habited. Sansa squealed when she saw they actually had what she deemed a clean shower, and two small bottles of complimentary shampoo and conditioner.

 

“I’m going to use all the hot water.” She warned him, kicking off her boots.

 

“You do and I’ll carry you out of there, kicking and screaming.” He threatened, before realizing what he’d said. He went silent, staring at her in horror. After a moment, Sansa laughed and pulled her flannel off without a moment of hesitation.

 

“I would like to see you try. I haven’t had a warm shower in, I don’t know, ages.” She threw her things on the chair and bolted for the bathroom, locking it shut. He smiled to think of her, sighing in contentment, stepping under a warm stream of water. He shuddered, but before he could stop it, he was thinking about the other things she did in the shower.

 

He pictured how the water would run in rivulets down her body, catching in the little hollows. He pictured her head, tilted back under the water, brown locks darkening as they soaked up the water. He pictured the little smile on her face, eyes closed, as the water splashed over her face and down her shoulders. He pictured her back arching, those hips turning so that she could wet her front and then her back, water running down her sides and between those long legs…

 

He grunted, realizing he was half hard and getting harder by the moment. He wanted to groan, quickly attributing it to the fact that he hadn’t gotten off in weeks. That’s all it was, some tension and annoyance. And she was the only woman he’d talked to in how long? It made sense that she had become the subject of his fantasies. It was nothing more than that.

 

“Hurry up!” He bellowed through the door. He could rub one out in the shower and be done with it. Forget about it. About her.

 

“No,” She said in a singsong voice. “It’s warm and I’m happy.”

 

“Sansa,” He said warningly and she raised her voice in a warbling song, something about waking up where your love is, because your love is always waking mine....

 

He glared helplessly at the door. Nothing but Sansa’s singing, loudly and off key, at turns too high and too low, cracking on some notes. She was purposely doing it, he realized as he prowled the room, growling. She was trying to annoy him and as the bulge in his pants became more and more uncomfortable, she began to succeed. He pounded on the door.

 

“Jesus then.” Sansa pushed the door open, walking out in just a towel. “Have the shower then. I promise I saved you warm water, so don’t even complain.”

 

“I…” His words died on his lips as she walked through the motel room, leaving damp footprints as she went in the shag carpeting. Her hair hung in tendrils down her back, tangled around strands. Droplets of water fell from her eyelashes and fingertips while the soft curve of the towel that hung below her shoulder blades was soaked from trying to absorb the dampness. “Hope you left me a dry towel.” He said harshly and Sansa glance up with a retort but he was already slamming the bathroom door.

 

He stripped out of his clothes as fast as he could, cursing when he had to get his underwear over his stiffening dick. He twisted the knob for the shower harshly and got in, uncaring of the temperature. A cold shower was exactly what he needed right now, but Sansa had made good on her promise and tepidly warm water flowed from the showerhead. He had to duck to wet his hair, but after a few moments of twisting and turning, he was mostly wet and one hand went down to grab himself.

 

One slow stroke and he wanted to moan. He did need this, he realized. He was far more tense than usual, and it only took a couple strokes before he was trembling, hand balled in a fist while the other carefully stroked, building his desire. He tried not to think about anything, instead focusing on the sensations and them alone, but he couldn’t resist himself.

 

“Sandor,” His vision of Sansa whispered as she got down on her knees in front of him, naked and still wet. Her eyes, so close, sparkled like water in first light. “Come for me.” Then she lowered her mouth onto his cock and began to slowly move.

 

He closed his eyes to better picture the scene. Sansa’s red hair, bobbing. She started slow, just the tip, before deepening, wetting his entire cock on the way down. She wrapped a hand around his base, using her dainty little hand to do what her mouth could not reach, and then her gaze flicked up to his, hotter than blue flames of the fiercest fire.

 

He came with a groan that he could barely suppress, balls tightening. He paused for a second, stunned at how quickly it had happened. He’d never finished that quickly by his own hand before, not ever. He hadn’t even thought about fucking her-- the thought made his dick give a hopeful twitch- and he’d finished. He watched as all evidence of it swirled down the drain and told himself it was because he was so tense. So stressed. That had to be it. Nothing else.

 

He finished washing himself clean, before getting out of the shower as it ran cold, snatching the only other towel. It was tiny, as too many things were in comparison to him. He wiped himself as dry as he could, then wrapped the meager towel around his hips and walked out, back into the room, searching for the clean clothes he’d neglected to grab in his haste to get into the shower.

 

“See, I left you hot water, you cranky son…” Sansa turned, braiding her hair and went silent at the sight of him. He paused, gripping the towel in his left hand while his right rummaged through clothes. He glanced at her and noted with pride at how thunderstruck she looked.

 

“Aye, but not much.” He told her and her jaw snapped shut. She looked up at him, went to say something, and then was quiet again. He continued his calm search for clothes, enjoying that for once she was caught off guard. It seemed he could do to her what she did to him. He didn’t know what to do with this revelation so he kept it close to himself.

 

“Well,” Sansa’s voice was just a notch or two higher than it should’ve been and when he glanced up at her, smirking despite himself. “Are you… Hungry?”

 

“Aye, I could go for a pizza.” He said calmly, fishing out underwear.

 

“We could do salads.” Sansa corrected and he glared, finding the shirt he wanted. Sansa glared right back, and he laughed as he pulled pants out.

 

“Order whatever you want, little bird.” He said, retreating back to the bathroom. “You know I don’t give a damn, so long as you’re happy.”

 

“That’s not a decision!” She called, as he disappeared behind the door again. When he emerged, dry and dressed, she was sitting on the bed, TV playing some reruns of a stupid sitcom with a blundering father and nagging wife with dreadful children. She looked up and smiled at him as he reclined on the bed, crossing his legs and sighing deeply, relaxing.

 

Sharing space wasn’t an issue with them anyone. Neither of them flinched at the single bed, or protested over the little touches needed while on the run. A couple times, when they’d been getting gas or food, Sansa had tucked herself into his side like it was the most natural thing in the entire world. Even more often, he’d pretend that it was, and she was his.

 

“So,” He asked lowly, searching for something better to watch. “What’d you order us then?”

 

“A pizza for you, supreme with extra pepperoni and half the black olives.” Sansa told him and he smiled faintly. She never once messed up his order. “And a side salad for me. I need to eat something green or I’m going to get scurvy, I swear.”

 

“You’re not a sailor.” He rolled his eyes and she grinned at him, crawling up next to him and then sitting there, eyeing him in a way that made him rather uncomfortable. He glanced at her, then nudged her away from him. She didn’t go, looking at his hair in what could’ve been longing.

 

“Can I brush it?” She asked suddenly and he frowned at her. She reached out and took a damp lock in her fingers, twisting it. It was almost down to his shoulders, and getting rather straggly. He’d like nothing better than a chop, but there wasn’t much time on the run to stop by a barber shop.

 

“Brush it?” He repeated and Sansa nodded, as if it wasn’t unusual. He raised an eyebrow higher. “Why do you want to… Brush it?”’

 

“My mom always brushed my hair.” Sansa informed him. “She never let me do or any of the women at the club. She liked doing it best. So she’d brush it, 100 strokes before bed, until it gleamed. She said it was her favorite thing to do with me.”

 

“You have nice hair.” He admitted warily. “I don’t.”

 

“You do too.” Sansa insisted. “Please? Just let me brush it. Pretty please? Please, pretty, pretty, please Sandor, pleaseeeeeeeeee…”

 

“Fine.” He agreed roughly, to stop her begging. She beamed and snatched the brush from the bedside table, slipping between his back and the headboard. He was acutely aware that her front was pressed to his back and without the road to distract him and layers of clothes to hide her, he felt things. Her legs wrapped around him from behind and he made a noise of shock before he could help himself.

 

“You’re not going anywhere.” She said, so damnably cheerful all the time and he gritted his teeth when he felt the tangles of the brush against his scalp but stayed silent. She’d get sick of him soon enough and move on to do something else. He just had to sit tight and wait out her new and improved form of torture. He knew dictators who could take lessons from Sansa Stark.

 

Except it wasn’t that unenjoyable. Sansa was gentle, working through the little dreads that had formed all over his head. She tugged and when he grunted in protest, she tightened her legs in a way that seemed to be designed to shut him up. It worked wonderfully. After a few minutes of struggling with it, Sansa got the brush to glide through his hair unimpeded. Then the real bliss began.

 

Sansa alternated the brush with her own fingers and she scraped her nails across his scalp, with just enough promise to hurt but it only sparked pleasure for him. Then she’d bring the brush after, smoothing out the strands. The black locks eventually became long and straight, hanging down in equal parts on each side of his face. Sansa carefully parted it like he usually did, so that the scarred side was hidden behind the curtain of black. Her fingertips brushed the scar.

 

“Little bird.” He sighed, leaning back against her despite himself and Sansa just kept running her fingers through his hair. How long had it been since he’d had someone who touched him tenderly and of their own free will, not out of terror or rudeness or cruel curiosity? He closed his eyes and still Sansa went on, petting him. The realization brought a small smile to his lips. That felt fitting. She was petting him, that was it. A worn dog, in the lap of his master, being preened.

 

“Did you always wear your hair so long?” She asked him quietly and he thought about the youth that had shorn his head, glaring defiantly in the mirror, daring the world to mock him.

 

“No.” He said quietly, pushing that scared little boy from him mind. “You can’t, not in the military. Spent a good chunk of my life as bald as a fucking egg.”

 

“Really?” Sansa raked his hair back. “I can’t picture you without long hair. It seems more… You. You’re not a short hair guy.”

 

“Because of the ugly ass scar I can’t hide?” He asked and Sansa’s legs tightened.

 

“No.” She said hotly.

 

“I know.” He backed down right away, knowing that Sansa hadn’t meant anything by it. She never did. She was too good, too good for the world. And for him, he reminded himself sternly. He could make her blush and let her comb his hair but it was never anything more.

 

“I meant because I just don’t really picture you in the military at all.” Sansa’s grip loosened, just slightly, and she resumed her ministrations to his hair. “I mean, with a gun, sure. But in a uniform, following orders, teamwork, all that stuff?”

 

“It was a long time ago.” He said tiredly and Sansa paused, just for a moment.

 

“Will you… Tell me about it?” She asked carefully.

 

“What’s there to know?” He said slowly.

 

“A lot of things.” Sansa insisted. “You just sort of allude to things, you never come right out and say them and it just leaves me wondering. Wondering who you are.”

 

“A killer.” He reminded her without missing a beat. “That’s who I am you little bird, and don’t you ever fucking forget it.”

 

“I know.” Sansa sounded annoyed, but he couldn’t see her face and not once did her gentle strokes even falter. “But surely you didn’t just go around murdering everyone that you saw. You had to have a purpose for doing it, one that was good, or you wouldn’t have stayed.”

 

“And you know this how?” He muttered and Sansa’s chest rose and fell briefly, like she was hiding a snort of laughter from him.

 

“Because you didn’t stay when your purpose wasn’t good the last time. You don’t have to tell me what you did. It’s probably all classified anyways. I just want to know why you did it. Why you went into the military, why you stayed, that stuff. Why you’re you.”

 

“Why does a pretty little bird care about an old war dog?” He muttered uncomfortably and Sansa’s fingers trailed down his neck slightly.

 

“I care about you, Sandor.”

 

“Bloody likely.” He muttered, because now he was helpless. Sansa was quiet, but after a moment, she simply leaned forward, resting her forehead between his shoulder blades like she did when they were riding and he knew he’d break then. “Fine. I went in when I was just a fucking green lad. Wanted away from home. Wanted off the streets. Was easier than trying to get a job or go to school. What else do you want to know then?”

 

“Why did you stay in?” Sansa muttered and he felt her lips moving through the thin fabric of his shirt. He struggled to not think about what else those lips could do.

 

“Because I was good at it, for the first time in my damned life. Wasn’t like I was a fucking scholar and the only place that wanted this mug were places trying to run off clients, not try to fucking keep them. But I’m a big cunt and I was a fighter and they liked that.” He told her, uncomfortably remembering the way his fellow cadets had stared at him in astonishment when he’d shown up for training.

 

“Who’s they?” Sansa asked quietly.

 

“Higher ups.” He gave a little shrug of his shoulders. “Decided they could use a massive Scottish fucker to take fire. Except I was better than that and when I kept surviving, they kept training me, giving me men, missions, shit. Don’t know how it happened, really. I just kept working at it and then… I just had it, and it was all I’d ever known in my whole life.”

 

“Did you do good?” Sansa murmured, her nails drifting down his neck. Goosebumps erupted all over his skin as his hair raised.

 

“Felt like it.” He admitted. “Not us, directly. But when you shoot a sniper that’s been killing kids, or a man that has 6 wives and beats them all, that sort of shit feels good. I wasn’t building the schools or digging the wells. I was the fucking hammer. But if I killed a couple bastards and made it a little easier for someone to live? Added a little tally back in my favor.”

 

“Huh.” Sansa seemed to be amused for some reason and he tried to twist, to see her face and what she was thinking but couldn’t.

 

“What?” He demanded.

 

“It’s just… That’s so… You.” Sansa rested her cheek against him and wrapped her arms around his chest. It was the same as she did every day on the back of the bike, but this felt different. This was different, he just didn’t know how to describe it.

 

“How?” He grunted.

 

“You don’t build the school or dig the well.” Sansa’s voice had an almost dreamy tone about it. “But you’ll shoot anyone who tries to stop those kids from going to school or that hurt the women who need that water. I don’t know. That just feels like you. You’re my… Warrior.”

 

“You’ve been reading too many books.” He warned her and Sansa chortled.

 

“Maybe. But I like my comparison anyways.” She fell silent and he felt the rise and fall of her chest, slow and steady. He wondered if she could hear his heart thumping painfully in his own chest. “Do you regret it? Not certain things you’ve done. Just it in general.”

 

“No.” He said honestly. “Why would I?”

 

“You don’t have any tattoos for it.” Sansa’s fingers traced where the dagger was, the outline of it. “You have tattoos for other stuff but not that.”

 

“What, so everyone knows? So everyone can say thank you or take their hats off or wear those fucking little posies once a year and talk about sacrifice like they knew what it fucking means?” The words came out unexpectedly harsh. “So that cunts can sing songs and make commercials that talk about duty and honor and make it out to be a fucking adventure? I served my time. I did it silently, happily, dutifully. I don’t need to be fucking recognized for it, applauded for it.”

 

“Alright.” Sansa rubbed calming circles on his back. “I just thought that your tattoos are a story and it feels like you’re missing a big chunk of them.”

 

“Those memories are seared in my brain,” He said heavily. “For the rest of my miserable fucking life. I don’t need to put them on my skin.”

 

“I know.” Sansa’s tone broke, just a little bit. “I get that.”

 

“Sansa….” He said, softening instantly. He forgot that she’d suffered, and that while she hadn’t had her fair skin shoved into a fire, she’d been hurt badly in her own way. And how long had it taken him to get her away from the pain. His hands found her thighs and squeezed.

 

“I don’t want to talk about that anymore.” She told him quietly. “Tell me something else then, something happier. Did you like the men there?”

 

“Half and half.” He kept his hand on her thigh, lightly, waiting for her to tell him to remove it and when she didn’t, began drawing little patterns on her skin. “Men in my unit? Sure. Liked them fine. They had my back, I had theirs. Simple as that. The higher ups…” He trailed off.

 

“Did you not like authority?” She asked him with a faint hint of amusement in her tone and he shook his head, droplets from his still damp hair flying.

 

“No, I listen just fine. Why I made such a fucking good soldier. But when you send men into a situation you wouldn’t send yourself into?” He made a noise of disgust, snarling despite himself. “Don’t send a bigger man to do your dirty work. You can’t question them, not a fucking peep, and when you do, that’s it. You’re not a dutiful little robot anymore and you’re gone.”

 

“You’re not a robot.” Sansa’s fascination with his hair had renewed and she was running her fingers through it again, the ends alone. “You’re Sandor.”

 

“Aye, now.” He leaned into her touch. “But back then, I was just a pair of boots and my i.d tags. That’s all you are when you’re a soldier.”

 

“Do you still have them?” Sansa muttered and he frowned slightly.

 

“Have what?”

 

“Your tags.” Sansa’s long arms reached around and up, resting between his pecs, where his tags had once sat. He paused for a moment, savoring the contact.

 

“Aye.” He said softly, thinking about where they were. Bottom of the backpack, hanging from the trigger of one of his oldest guns, the pistol he’d brought with him from Scotland, the one he’d taken from the old manor beside the meadow, the only thing that marked him as a Clegane of the highlands. “Where I go, they go. So if I die, someone’ll know.”

 

“You won’t die.” Sansa’s arms were suddenly a vice grip around him. “You won’t, you can’t, and if you do, I’ll be very unhappy.”

 

“Ah.” It hit him then, very suddenly, that it had been a very long time that he’d had someone that would mourn his death. For so long, as he went from job to job, guarding some asshole to the next, no one had given a damn if he’d lived or died or came home. He would’ve been just another body lost in the seedy outlaw life, one of the nameless body bags.

 

He had a sudden image of a large tombstone bearing his own name and Sansa weeping over it, dressed in black. She’d be inconsolable, weeping for him. Promising that she wasn’t going to love another soul, ever. That she was his and only his. He shook his head, wondering where the hell that had came from, before pressing back into her slightly. Her arms loosened, just a fraction.

 

“Good.” She said slowly. “I would hate that.”

 

“I won’t go anywhere, little bird.” He promised, almost amused at her reaction. It was still touching, to think of her missing him.

 

“Me either.” Sansa sighed slightly and after a moment they were both quiet. Sansa’s fingers were back in his hair and he closed his eyes, relaxing. She was clearly doing something, but he didn’t care to investigate. A gentle tug here and there, his hair pulled back, but her little touches felt so good that he hardly noticed that she had slipped a hair tie off her wrist.

 

The knock on the door startled both of them, looking up. Sandor gave her knee a squeeze and got up, grabbing cash and walking to the door. He opened it, staring at the young boy who’d delivered it with a bored expression and a grubby uniform. Sandor wordlessly offered him the cash and the kid’s gaze swept up to look at him. Sandor bared his teeth, expecting a remark on his scar, before,

 

“Hey man, nice braid. Very Viking-eque. It’ll be $18.59.” He said, handing Sandor the pizza box and a plastic container with sad greens inside it. Sandor wordlessly handed him a couple bills, taking his order and the kid walked away, back to the running car. Sandor kicked the door shut with his foot before practically throwing the food on the bed and going to the bathroom, where he looked in the mirror.

 

Sansa had braided his hair in one of her elaborate styles, he realized in astonishment. His dark hair was now pulled back from his face, french braided and tied back neatly down his neck. It did enhance his scar, but not in the way his shaved head had. It looked strangely normal on him, all things considered. He blinked several times, then went back out to where a sheepish Sansa waited, putting dressing on her salad. She gave a helpless giggle when he raised an eyebrow.

 

“Sorry.” She said instantly. “I couldn’t resist. I wanted to see if I was still good at braiding other people’s hair and, well,” She trailed off.

 

“I’m your only other person.” He said heavily, understanding. He sat down on the bed and opened the pizza box as she eyed him skeptically.

 

“Are you angry with me?”

 

“Why would I be?” His gaze flickered up to her as he took a bite of pizza, the grease, cheese, and toppings sliding off the crust.

 

“Because… I don’t know…” Sansa eyed him warily. “Boys usually don’t like it when you play with their hair. Thinks it makes them… I don’t know.”

 

“You scratch my head like that again little bird, you could make me into fucking Marie Antoinette and I won’t give a damn.”

 

“Really?” Sansa looked delighted at his acceptance and he hid his own smile by taking another bite, shrugging his shoulders.

 

“Sure.”

 

“Ok.” Sansa agreed happily, before reaching for a slice. He slapped her hand away.

 

“Don’t order salad like a little rabbit and then eat my fucking pizza.”

 

“I just want a slice you big brute!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I just have to say that reading your reviews is absolutely the best part of my weekend and nothing makes me happier than getting to engage with all of you. It's wonderful. 
> 
> Sidebar, does anyone listen to the songs while they read? What do you think? Sorry my musical tastes are all over the board, but this song felt... Appropriate. 
> 
> If you follow me on tumblr, i'm putting the moodboards up on there this weekend! Thank you all so much for reading!


	16. King, Lauren Aquilina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi friends another saturday another chapter this one is dedicated to all of you who review and make my day a little brighter, jon snow who will most certainly die in the next season according to my pessimistic life partner, and to the reunion between jon and sansa which was a thing of beauty no matter who you ship 
> 
> ok please enjoy my poetic musings on Wyoming cause tbh it's a pretty state ok

Sansa looked around critically. There wasn’t much to see. Wyoming seemed like a barren wasteland after the magicalness of Colorado. She knew the change was all in her mind, that she was biased in her love of Colorado, but the skiing towns and resorts had faded and now it was just small settlements that dotted the wall of mountain, occasionally ranches and a few houses huddled together in the shadow of the mountain. It made Sansa feel a little more wild, but a fair bit smaller.

 

Sandor was sitting beside her, calmly eating his sandwich and watching the wide expanse of empty land. It was almost amusing to Sansa, to see the change that had come over him as they drifted from California now to Wyoming. The rage was lessening with each mile they rode, and it seemed that even as he put more clothes on, layers of Sandor were revealed to her.

 

They were in a sort of comfortable balance now, understanding each other with ease. No words had to pass between them, but when Sandor crumpled up his napkin and bag of chips, Sansa stood as well, stretching. She cracked her back and her knees, taking a deep breath. Sandor sat back down on the bike and Sansa sat behind him, lacing her fingers across his stomach.

 

He was slowly gravitating towards larger roads, since Wyoming as a whole seemed rather empty. Sansa wondered how many people were in the state, and if they even knew anything about Lions and Wolves and a boy named Joffrey. Or if all that mattered to them were their cattle and horses and if the massive sky above them would be kind or harsh. She rather thought she and Sandor should stay.

 

The nights were chillier in the mountains, so Sandor pulled off into a town before the sun could fully set. Sansa’s stomach rumbled loudly, and she felt Sandor’s back shake as he suppressed his laughter. He quickly turned towards a dive bar, parking in the front. He got off and Sansa followed, groaning as her joints popped and cracked, protesting the shift in position after sitting for so long.

 

“Are you 90 years old?” Sandor demanded and Sansa stuck her tongue out at him, rolling her eyes and cracking her neck.

 

“I was an athlete, remember?” She pointed out sassily and he chuckled as he held the door open for her, music and smoke drifting out.

 

“And I was a special ops soldier but I don’t sound like that.”

 

“Well,” Sansa made a face at him before turning to the bartender with a wide, sweet smile. “Where do you want to sit?”

 

They were placed at a rickety table by a waitress who didn’t bother to remove the cigarette from her mouth as she took their order. Sansa tried to jokingly order sushi, and was rewarded with a glare and silence. Sansa quickly reversed her order to chicken strips and fries. Sandor ordered two burgers and onion rings, along with a tall beer and a shot.

 

“What?” He demanded, when she raised an eyebrow.

 

“Am I such bad company I drive you to drink?” She teased lightly, playing with the straw wrapper. She began to fold it in half, and in half again.

 

“This place drives me to drink.” He informed her, taking a sip.

 

“You liar.” Sansa smiled brightly. “This is the most relaxed you’ve been in weeks. You love it here. I keep thinking you’re going to detour and buy a plot of land and start building a house with your own two hands. A couple horses, a few dogs, you’d blend right in.”

 

“Would I?” He grunted, avoiding her eyes. He seemed determined to look at everything but her, so Sansa turned her attention to the walls as well. The interior decorating choices were interesting, as one wall was covered in the progression of saws through the years. Mixed in were signs about owning guns, hunting jokes, and one that seemed vaguely racist.

 

Another wall was dedicated to mounted heads of dead animals, with plaques beneath detailing who shot what and when. The dead animals stared down at them, silently judging. Sansa made a face of disgust at the mounted elk covered in dust. She turned back to Sandor, who was also looking at the elk with equal measures of curiosity and distaste.

 

“Alright, maybe not blending right in. But you like it here.” She reasoned and he folded his arms and watched her with narrowed eyes.

 

“Do I?”

 

“Yeah.” Sansa plucked a handful of cold popcorn from the basket the waitress had dropped between the two of them like it was the greatest inconvenience for her. “You told me - remember? - that you liked open spaces better than the city. That’s why you were always dragging me out of town whenever Joffrey let us. You were happier than, and you’re happiest now.”

 

“And it’s the space that does it?” He raised an eyebrow. “Nothing else?”

 

“I don’t know.” Sansa felt heating rising up from the base of her toes and pooling in her stomach and cheeks. “That’s all there is.”

 

“Aye.” He made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and Sansa looked down at her hands, where she’d anxiously folded the wrapper into nothing more than a little ball. She blinked, then threw it at his face, hitting him squarely between the eyes.

 

“Ha!” She laughed at the annoyed look on his face and he narrowed his eyes before reaching down and picking the wrapper up.

 

“Really? Are you a fucking two year old?” He demanded, but without malice. Sansa grinned cheekily, before taking a sip of her water.

 

“Nope. But you’re never too old to throw things at people. You should see what happens when my family goes out to eat.”

 

“I can imagine.” He said dryly.

 

“It’s fun.” Sansa informed him. “Once, when they were little, Rickon and Bran got into a brawl because they wanted to order the same thing. They had a tussle and before my dad could get them to stop, they ran right into a waitress and spilled a different family’s meal. So my dad had to pay for all our food, and theirs - unless we didn’t get to eat and mom took us home? I can’t remember.”

 

“And you were an angel I’m sure.” He commented, raising an eyebrow.

 

“I was.” Sansa said sweetly. “I never once stole my brothers’ food, or shoved ketchup in Arya’s face, or threw food at my mom when she made me mad.”

 

“Sounds like you.” Sandor remarked, as their food arrived. Sansa sighed at the small chicken strips and the greasy fries, but Sandor was already plowing through one burger.

 

“You know what I’m going to do when we get home?” Sansa remarked, gingerly picking up a chicken strip and pulling it in half to dip it in ranch.

 

“What?” Sandor’s mouth was full.

 

“Make the biggest, healthiest smoothie bowl. Then I’m going to do a juice cleanse and have a big salad. I’m going to drown myself in healthy foods.” She declared.

 

“Why?” Sandor frowned at her, pausing in grabbing another onion ring. “Because if you think you’re fucking fat Sansa, I swear--”

 

“No, it’s not that.” Sansa rolled her eyes at him. She knew she was skinny, likely too skinny. But her appetite had only returned somewhere around northern New Mexico, and their budget was never more than $15 a meal for the two of them, so she let Sandor order more. He needed it more than she did. “But I feel like I haven’t had something green in ages. I feel like my body is slowly shutting down if I don’t give it something somewhat healthy, or at least something not processed.”

 

“Next salad restaurant I see I’ll be sure to pull over.” He said, deadpan, and Sansa gave him a face before taking a bite of her fries.

 

“Doesn’t have to be salads. Just find me an organic anything.” She bargained and he snorted as he took a drink of his beer. “Or a smoothie.”

 

“Aye then.”

 

“What, do you have something against smoothies?” Sansa raised an eyebrow and Sandor shrugged, polishing off his onion rings.

 

“No.”

 

“Why do you say it like that?” Sansa pressed.

 

“Like what?” He demanded.

 

“Like it’s bad!”

 

“I didn’t.”

 

“Did too.”

 

“Did-- oh, fucking hell.” He glared at her. “I’m not bickering with you like a damned child.”

 

“Sounds like you were.” Sansa smirked at him and ate another chicken strip. “I have a funny story about smoothies though, and it’ll make you laugh.”

 

“Alright, what?” He sighed and took another drink of his beer, but Sansa ignored his lack of enthusiasm and plunged on anyways.

 

“So one time, Arya and Rickon decided they wanted to make a smoothie but Arya was like six and Rickon like two, so obviously they didn’t have a clue how to do it. So they just threw a bunch of random things in there and tried to call it good, like a bunch of fruit and chocolate and candy and stuff. And then they plugged it in and didn’t put the cap on it and just pressed blend.” She snorted with laughter. “It went everywhere.”

 

“Then?” Sandor asked, looking slightly amused.

 

“Then my mom came home. The kitchen was a mess. Arya and Rickon were a mess. The whole place looked like a bomb has gone off. I think they’d tried to clean it but only made it worse. And then mom grounded us, since we weren’t watching them closely!” Sansa said, still affronted. “And those little brats didn’t even get yelled at, and we had to clean it up!”

 

“Who’s we?” Sandor asked, as the door blew open.

 

“Me, and Robb, and…” Sansa’s voice disappeared as men walked through the door, heading towards the bar. Because in their midst was a face she knew nearly as well as her own. It was the face of her father, except a little shorter, not so haggard, and with the curly hair of her mother, though his was pitch black. He wore the kutte of a nomad and dark jeans. She uttered his name brokenly. _“Jon.”_

 

Sandor turned to see what had caught her attention, at the same time as Jon looked their way. His eyes, the same dark grey as their father and Arya’s, caught hers and for a moment, the whole world went quiet. All that mattered was the connection, the grey to blue, and what passed between the two of them. Confusion. Disbelief. Astonishment. And then joy.

 

“Sansa?” Jon’s voice rang out above the din of the bar, and Sansa was up and out of the booth, rushing for him, already sobbing.

 

He caught her and she was crying, burying her face in his neck. His strong arms went around her, clasping her tightly to his chest. For a second, she simply tried to take in the fact that he was there, that he was real. That he was here, with her. She cried harder, and Jon’s arms tightened around her until she felt breathless. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was Jon.

 

People around them were talking, but Sansa paid them no attention. She was holding tightly to Jon’s kutte, the familiar leather that was cold from outside. Jon still smelled like he always had; like fresh air, smoke, and a hint of something spicy, like sandalwood. He seemed thinner, more grown up, than the last time she’d seen him, and it made her want to sob, just a little bit.

 

“Jon.” She whispered and his only response was to tighten his arms around her and hang on. But then he loosened his grip and held her out in front of him, his eyes roving over her, as if to catalog all of her changes. She tried to soak him in.

 

“What the fuck Sanny?” He demanded, once he found his voice, and his nickname for her, the one that she hated so much as a child, made her burst into tears all over again. She clasped his face, feeling the rough stubble that grew there.

 

“I’m sorry.” She said instantly, defaulting to apologizing as always. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know that it was going to--”

 

“Sansa.” Jon cut her off and grabbed her face, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. “For once in your life, shut up. Please.”

 

“Ok.” She gave a watery chuckle and shut her eyes. Jon pulled her face to his chest again, resting his chin atop her head.

 

“And when the fuck did you dye your hair?”

 

“I didn’t want to!” She absurdly felt like laughing, struggling to keep in wild giggles. “But Sandor made me, since my red stuck out so bad, and--”

 

“Who the fuck is Sandor?” Jon asked, but by the way his gaze was already narrowed on the larger form that hovered behind Sansa, it was clear the answer to that question.

 

“This is Sandor Clegane.” Sansa said quietly, reaching back for him. By the way the place burst into mummers, Sansa knew that they knew exactly who he was.

 

“Maybe this needs to get taken somewhere a little more… Private.” Sandor suggested lowly, glaring at the other bikers who were looking at them in clear interest.

 

“Yeah.” Jon shook himself like he was dazed, then reached and took Sansa’s hand. “I have a motel room, that’s where we’re staying right now.”

 

“Somewhere quiet? Off the beaten path?” Sandor demanded harshly and Jon gave him a queer look before nodding slowly.

 

“Yeah, it’s safe. No one will try anything there. Are you being followed?” He questioned in return and Sansa waved a hand.

 

“Later.” She urged. “Let’s go, please.”

 

“Aye.” Sandor slapped some cash down on the bar. “C’mon then, little bird.”

 

“She’s my sister. She’ll ride with me.” Jon said instantly, his grip tightening on Sansa’s hand. She wanted to huff and roll her eyes as Sandor looked down at Jon, offended.

 

“Listen here you green piece of shit, I’ve been the one to--”

 

“Boys!” Sansa ended their pissing contest with a glare. “Later!”

 

“Right.” Jon broke off the staredown with Sandor to gaze down at her. “San, you’re riding with me, ok?” The look he gave her was pleading.

 

“It’s alright.” She addressed Sandor, quietly. “Follow us, it’ll be fine, I promise.”

 

“Aye.” He muttered and when Sansa turned around to Jon, he was looking at her in a mixture of confusion and admiration.

 

“Ok, let’s go.” He led her back outside and Sansa wanted to burst into tears or cries of delight at the sight of his bike. She’d know it anywhere, the all black thing with one white decal of a wolf. Ghost. It was like she’d found a little piece of home in the middle of Wyoming.

 

Sandor kept tight on Jon’s tail the entire ride, as though he was going to kidnap Sansa and haul her back off. Sansa, for the most part, just kept her face buried in Jon’s back, trying to breathe him in. He did take them to a small motel on the edges of the small town, pulling into an empty stall. Sandor parked next to him, off the bike and inspecting their surroundings in a flash. Jon unlocked the door and ushered Sansa in, waiting for Sandor and seemingly annoyed by needing to do so.

 

“Jon.” Sansa couldn’t bring herself to leave his side. He gave her an absent minded pat to the cheek, turning lights on. Sandor was behind her in a second, lightly resting a hand on her back and guiding her towards a chair. She sat, heavily.

 

“Now can you tell me what’s going on?” Jon demanded, sitting across from her. “The last I heard anything, you’d ran off to god knows where, to do god knows what, and that Robb was going to war over it all. What the hell did you do Sansa?”

 

“Robb was already going to war.” Sansa said flatly. “You’d have known that if you’d have stayed to see him get elected president.”

 

“Don’t.” Jon warned her. “Don’t start that now.”

 

“Fine.” Sansa took a deep breath and tried to go back to that place of joy she’d felt upon seeing him again. “I…. Made a mistake.”

 

“You went south.” Jon stated and Sansa glared at him until he hushed.

 

“I didn’t think that dad had been killed by Joffrey. I forgot how our world worked, when I was in college. I thought that I would go and talk rationally and everything would be sorted out. I thought Robb was being an idiot, that biker wars were stupid, that this was all just stupid boys with too much testosterone playing at outlaws and that I was so smart and wise after college that I could fix it. And… I couldn’t.

 

“Joffrey took me hostage. Locked me up in the clubhouse, made me do… Things. Beat me when Robb did something, or when things happened that he didn’t like. He’s awful Jon, he’s evil. He killed dad in cold blood, and he would’ve killed me too, if it hadn’t been for Sandor.” Sansa smiled at her large protector, but Jon, across from her, was more inclined to be furious.

 

“He laid hands on her and you did nothing?” He demanded of Sandor, who bristled instantly.

 

“He didn’t know.” Sansa threw out a hand to stop Sandor from rushing at Jon. “He protected me Jon, he did. Trust me. I wouldn’t have made it out of there alive if it hadn’t been for Sandor.”

 

“How did you get out?” Jon turned his gaze reluctantly back to Sansa. “That was the last any of us knew, Joffrey had you.”

 

“Sandor helped me escape. When Robb took the Westerling warehouse, Joffrey was… Mad. He sent everyone away and then Sandor helped me get out. We’ve been on the run ever since.” Sansa explained eagerly and Jon looked slowly between the two of them.

 

“And why not head straight home?” He asked slowly, skeptical and Sandor gave a booming laugh that held no humor in it.

 

“Pretty boy is pretty stupid.” He growled. “You think that cunt wouldn’t send all his men after her? Think none of them wanted a taste?”

 

“They would’ve known that’s where we were going.” Sansa explained, more gently, and Jon glared at Sandor furiously.

 

“It would’ve been safer.” He insisted.

 

“I’m the one trained in evasive maneuvers, not you.” Sandor said cooly. “And she’s alive, isn’t she? Seems my methods work.”

 

“Do they?” Jon riled up. “She belongs at home, safe, with her family!”

 

“Then take me back!” Sansa turned from trying to calm down Sandor to glaring at her brother, all the hurt and angry words they’d said long ago now broken open again and rushing out. “You take me back, you come home with me, you see your family and stand at Robb’s side, where you belong!”

 

“Sansa.” He said sharply. “Don’t.”

 

“No, I will. You just left Jon, you up and fucking went without a goddamn thought of consideration for anyone else! Did you know how that devastated Robb? Did you think about Arya, or the littles? About how heartbroken mom was? Did you even care?” Tears were running down her face. “Or did you not give a fuck at all about any of us? Why were you so selfish?”

 

“I wasn’t selfish!” Jon fought back. “Do you know what it’s like, to be in Robb’s shadow all the time? Golden child Robb. Pride of mom and dad’s eye, shoo in to be the next president. I was forgotten San, no one gave a fuck about me! I needed freedom or....”

 

“I get that.” Sansa reached out and took his hand, trying to draw him in closer. “I really do Jon. I ran away to college, remember? But you have to come back. You have to come home.”

 

“One day.” Jon whispered and pulled her into another tight embrace. Sansa simply held onto him, and cried into his flannel shirt. She was alright. She was here, with her family.

 

“Ok, I don’t want to cry anymore.” She declared, wiping her tears. “I’m done crying now. We’re not going to fight anymore.”

 

“Alright.” Jon agreed easily. “Then you can tell me what the hell is going on. Are you hurt? Are you alright? Do you have money? Are you going home?”

 

“It’s fine.” Sansa assured him. “I’m fine, Sandor is getting me home, everything is fine. We’re just… Taking the scenic route.”

 

“And you haven’t had a problem?” Jon questioned. Sansa’s hands briefly clenched into fists and she looked down from Jon’s gaze.

 

“It was handled.” Sandor said bluntly and Jon’s gaze snapped to him.

 

“By her or you?” He asked the larger man icily and Sandor remained calm, gazing at Jon like he was nothing more than a mildly annoying dog.

 

“I did the bloody parts, but she’s the one who saved our skins. I can tell you that much.” He said matter-of-factly and Jon looked at Sansa, aghast.

 

“I’m not the innocent little princess I once was.” She reminded him, slightly annoyed that Jon was still looking at her like she was some child that needed protection.

 

“You’re not a killer either.” Jon said flatly, his anger directed at Sandor. “She’s an innocent in all of this, and if you can’t protect her--”

 

“Don’t.” Sansa said shortly, before Sandor could even open his mouth. “Don’t Jon. He was the only one who protected me against Joffrey, the only one who even cared. He has protected me, better than anyone else. I would be dead if it wasn’t for him, and I won’t hear anything else against him, do you understand me? He’s… He’s… He’s my guard.”

 

“What do you want for her, then?” Jon sneered and at that, Sandor did bristle, rising up to his full height to tower over Jon.

 

“You better consider what you’re saying, boy, and why.” He growled. “Before you see just what I’m capable of doing to defend her.”

 

“Hey.” Sansa said sharply and Sandor looked down at her. “Don’t get all grumbly because Jon assumed nefarious intentions with you. That’s all you do to people, ever, all day.”

 

“You are not some bloody object to be bartered and traded for!” Sandor protested, ignoring the look of disbelief on Jon’s face as he watched them bicker.

 

“As I recall, you once said that Joffrey was paying you good money to guard me and keep me safe in my cage.” Sansa quipped and Sandor narrowed his eyes at her while Jon’s mouth opened and closed in a wordless, furious rage.

 

“Aye, it was good money. The kind you retire on.” He retorted and Sansa’s mouth pulled up into a semi lopsided smile.

 

“And I told you that Robb would pay good money too, remember?”

 

“It’s not about the money now.” Sandor admitted, clearly uncomfortable. “It hasn’t been about the money in a long time, little bird.”

 

“I know.” Sansa said sweetly, patting his cheek and Jon looked between the two of them, utterly bewildered for a long moment.

 

“So…” He said slowly and Sansa turned back to her brother. “What are you going to do now Sanny? Where are you going to go?”

 

“Home.” Sansa’s brow knitted together just slightly, her blue eyes confused. “I’m going home, and you’re coming with me. Aren’t you? Jon?”

 

“I…” Jon looked away from her, before banging on the door startled them all. Sandor had his gun out before Sansa could even turn to look at it.

 

“Oi, Snow!” A voice bellowed. Sansa looked at Jon, bewildered, but he didn’t seem to miss a beat, yelling back at the man,

 

“What?”

 

“We’re going to Roy’s. Meet us there?”

 

“Yeah, maybe.” Jon said, noncommittally. The voices outside the door faded, as Sansa turned to look at her brother in bewilderment.

 

“Snow?” She demanded and again, he seemed unable to meet her eyes.

 

“That’s my name now. I’m a no one here. I can be Jon Snow, and no one knows that I’m Ned Stark’s son. That’s the name my brothers gave me.” He told her.

 

“You are Jon Stark! You’ve always been Jon Stark!” Sansa raged, getting up and pacing the room. Jon watched her with sad eyes.

 

“Not here. Here, I need to be Jon Snow. It’s safer that way.”

 

“I should make you come home with me.” Sansa mused. “I should drag you back, kicking and screaming. I should refuse to go anywhere until you take me home. Why don’t you want to come home? And don’t give me that bullshit about mom and Robb. It’s deeper than that. Why?” She rounded on Jon, feeling like she was barely controlling her emotions.

 

“Fine.” Jon looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly. “I… I need time San, I need space. When I’m home, I feel like I’m on fire inside, like I am dying slowly and no one can hear my screams. No one cares. It’s fucking claustrophobic there, with mom’s grief and Robb’s duty and everyone always expecting so much from you. I needed freedom. It’s the only time I don’t feel like I’m being crushed, when I’m trying to get far away from everything, all the bullshit.”

 

“So you’d rather be off galavanting across the countryside than be at home with your family that so desperately needs you?” Sansa demanded of him and Jon flexed his fingers again, like they itched to have a bike beneath him so he could ride away.

 

“I need space.” He said tersely.

 

“I need my brother!” Sansa practically cried.

 

“And you’ll go home and have Robb and Bran and Rickon.” Jon said easily and Sansa threw her hands up, pacing again.

 

“They need you too. For fuck’s sake, Robb is waging a damn war. What if something happens to him? What if something happens to Arya? Then what are you going to do?” Sansa pushed him and Jon exhaled, leaning back in his chair.

 

“The nomads don’t get involved in other’s charter’s business, Sanny. You know that. We don’t take sides in shit like this.”

 

“Don’t call me that.” Sansa snapped, all of her happiness ebbing away at the resurgence of the same argument they’d had months ago. “You’re being a damned coward Jon and you know it, hiding behind the nomads while we all get stuck in the crosshairs. You need to fight for your family!”

 

“Don’t.” Jon’s tone was just off of dangerous and Sansa went quiet, still scowling fiercely. Jon waited for a moment to make sure she was going to hold her tongue. “Well fuck me, I need a smoke. Clegane, you want one?” He stood and offered his pack.

 

“Do it outside.” Sansa said bitterly. “You know I can’t stand that fucking smell.”

 

“Aye.” Sandor rose and looked at her quizzically until she gave him a short nod and he and Jon exited the motel room. The second they were gone, Sansa furiously beat her fists into the pillow.

 

She didn’t understand her brother. She never really had. Jon had been so different than all of them, that Sansa had practically dismissed him. But now that he was somewhere out of reach from her, and he didn’t want to go back with her, Sansa felt rage and sadness all at once. Part of her understood. She’d used college as her excuse to leave for a couple years and hadn’t cared how it made her siblings feel.

 

But now it was her that felt abandoned, she wanted to throw a temper tantrum like a child to make him come home with her. She just wanted her family back together. It didn’t seem so unreasonable. What right did Jon have, hiding in the wilderness of Wyoming while her family struggled? She ignored the small part of her that understood exactly why he was doing it.

 

She tried not to groan as she sat down on the bed and resigned herself to the fact that no matter what, she was not getting her brother to come back. A smile quirked at the corner of her mouth when she heard to low rumble indistinguishable voices, and wondered just what Jon and Sandor were talking about over shared cigarettes. She wondered when they’d start fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so this chapter sort of marks a shift and i would say is the beginning of part three so i hope you all enjoy it please drop a review on the way out to keep your local fanfic writer trucking till season 8
> 
> or tell me your pet's name cause that seems fun too
> 
> y'all are queens and kings i love you


	17. Running with the Wolves, AURORA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok may i just say that knowing about your guys pets is honestly the greatest thing thats ever happened to me because i love animals and you people so it's just goodness all around
> 
> also this chapter comes with my frequent reminder and disclaimer that 1. i am not GRRM and 2. i am not a doctor so if there is anyone out there who is and tells me that this is not how it works like ok fair but i'm not rewriting it, ya know? 
> 
> enjoy!

He’d hadn’t had a smoke since before they’d gone on the run, no matter how many he craved. Sansa’s delicate little nose would always wrinkle up at the smell and she’d give an exaggerated cough, like it was such a pain to her lungs to even breathe air where smoke had once lingered. So he took his time with the first drag, trying to savor it, and instantly feeling guilty for it.

 

“So,” Jon began darkly and Sandor had to take another drag to avoid smiling. He knew the man would have something to say to him. “My sister.”

 

“Aye.” Sandor took a drag of his cigarette, flicking ash calmly. “What about her?”

 

“Look, I’ll get straight to the point.” Jon turned to him and folded his arms. “I don’t trust you. I don’t like you around her.”

 

“Fine.” Sandor leaned against a pole. “You take her back then.” That made Jon scowl deeply and look up into the stars that were beginning to poke out of the ink black sky.

 

“How do I trust that she’s going to be safe with you?” He demanded and Sandor couldn’t help but shrug. He wasn’t going to lie about what situation they were in, or how they’d gotten there. He wasn’t even going to lie about the kind of man he was.

 

“Because I’d kill any cunt who tried to hurt her. I fucking already have. And I’ll keep getting blood on my hands, if it keeps it off hers.” He told Jon, who blinked.

 

“How are you going to get her home?” Jon questioned him.

 

“Across Wyoming. Across Idaho. Drop down into Cali. Leave her nice and neat on Winterfell’s front doorstep.” He listed off.

 

“You should have smooth going in Idaho.” Jon admitted reluctantly. “That’s the way we came, and it’s all my brother’s territory. No one should give you much trouble if you keep your head down.”

 

“Aye.” Sandor muttered quietly, thinking about how that meant their road trip would be ending sooner rather than later. Then Sansa would be back, safe, with her family, and would have no use for him.

 

“She’s ok, right?” Jon asked suddenly.”She’s not… Not... “

 

“What?” Sandor demanded, unsure of what Jon was trying to say. “Traumatized? Hurt? Scared? She’s all of those things you dumbass, but she’s also the smartest person I’ve ever met and one of the strongest. Joffrey put her through hell and she still came out of it with a smile and her damned pleases and thank yous and still cared more about everyone else than herself.”

 

“That’s Sansa.” Jon gave an unexpected little smile. “She always was the kindest and sweetest out of all of us, even when she was being cruel. A perfect little princess, that’s what our father would call her. She always tried to be ladylike even in our chaos.”

 

“Sounds like her.” Sandor admitted, growing slightly uncomfortable.   

 

“You’ll take her home.” Jon was talking more to himself than to Sandor. “You’ll get her home safe. You’re a better man for it, you said so.”

 

“You’re her brother. She needs her family.” Sandor reminded him and Jon gave a humorless chuckle, shaking his head.

 

“My family doesn’t need me and I don’t need them.” He said quietly. “Robb needs war, Sansa needs a purpose, Arya needs revenge, Bran needs an escape, Rickon needs wildness, and I need freedom. I can’t have it with them and it will only make things worse.”

 

“Take it from someone who doesn’t have a family.” Sandor said quietly. “Yours is better than fucking most, and you’re ungrateful not to see that.”

 

“Well, I’m ungrateful then.” Jon seemed bothered by this. “You’ll meet them, you’ll see. They’re just… They’re a lot sometimes.”

 

“A lot?” Sandor snorted in disgust and pointed to his face. “My fucking brother did this to me, you cunt, so why don’t you keep bitching about being in your brother’s shadow, aye?”

 

“I’m glad she has you.” Jon said suddenly, after a long pause of horror. “You’re what she deserves, after all of this. You’ll be good to her.”

 

“What the fuck--” Sandor turned to him, about to demand why the hell it sounded like Jon was going to give him his blessing to marry Sansa, when the low rumbling of bikes hushed both of them. Jon frowned slightly, squinting into the darkness.

 

“I didn’t think they’d be back so soon....” He muttered, as the bikes pulled towards them. Sandor’s brain was working in slow motion, trying to piece together what had suddenly set him on edge. Years of fine tuning his survival instincts were not lost, and for a long second, he stood tensed, wondering what it was that seemed so off to him about their current situation.

 

The bikes were not the grey and black of Wolf Nomads. There were more of them, easily a dozen, and far more than there should have been. They way they rode was different, tightly packed together, slow, as if they were looking for someone or something. The sense of dread was only confirmed when Sandor saw the leader turn around, and upon spotting their bikes, swung his men in that direction.

 

“Go--” Sandor was scrambling, pushing Jon’s chest. “Go! Now!”

 

“What?” Jon asked, confused, but Sandor shoved him towards his bike the moment a shot rang out. Jon swore and ducked.

 

“GO!” Sandor roared. “GO NOW YOU FUCKING--”

 

“Sansa!” Jon protested but Sandor held him at arm's length.

 

“I’ve got her you fucking moron, it’s us they want, now go!” He bellowed and Jon tore his kutte off before getting on his bike. Sandor watched as he roared away, and when a few bikers broke off from the main, hoped that he was smarter than he looked.

 

Then he darted inside the motel room, where Sansa had leapt to her feet, wide eyed and terrified. She had her little gun out and Sandor couldn’t help his ill-timed bubble of pride at that. But then it was gone, at the sight of the absolute terror in her eyes. He barred the door, trying to put himself between her and the danger. He was so distracted trying to think about how they were going to get out of this that he didn’t hear her demands that were quickly slipping in hysteria.

 

“Jon, where’s Jon, **where’s Jon** , where is he, where did he--”

 

“Gone.” Sandor gasped, digging desperately through his weapons, trying to find one that would work to get them out of this mess. Sansa made a noise somewhere between a groan and wail. “No! Not dead, he escaped, he got out and we need to--”

 

A gunshot shattered the window and Sansa screamed. Sandor leapt to slam her to the floor behind the bed, landing hard on top of her. She was trembling from head to toe, but Sandor snapped into his fight or flight mode, resolving himself to fight. He forced her under the bed, then crawled, staying low, towards the now broken window, trying to see out.

 

“You fucking idiot!” Someone was yelling. “He wants the bitch alive! You can’t just start shooting into the damn place, for fuck’s sake!”

 

“Well,” The other man replied stupidly. “She’ll come out now or I’ll keep shooting.”

 

“No, you dumb motherfucker, she--” The other man was yelling as Sandor peeked out the window, trying to guess how many of them there was. He’d counted about a dozen when they’d driven in, and three or four had gone after Jon. That left single digits for him. They stood in a loose cluster, trying to decide what to do, and Sandor spotted the patch on their kutte.

 

Two towers. The Twins. As far as he had always known, they were a small club of mostly Frey men that usually allied with the Wolves, or didn’t take sides at all. If they were here, looking for Sansa, that meant they’d switched sides and made them even more dangerous. His only reassurance was that the men were often as dumb as they were ugly, and not famed for their beauty.

 

He didn’t know if Jon had made it out safely. He hoped, for Sansa’s sake, that the man had, and was somewhere safe and whole. He’d didn’t want to be the cause of any more of her pain. But he couldn’t worry about Jon. He had to get her out first. He had a good vantage point. If he could pick them off one by one, and get some down in the first couple shots, he might kill a few before they knew his position. He took a deep breath, checking to make sure the ammo was within reach. With one glance back to be certain that Sansa was still well hidden beneath the bed, he turned back to the window and began shooting.

 

He’d always been a good shot. One instructor had made a snide comment that it took minimal talent and skill to hit a target, but that would all change when it was a person in front him. Sandor had responded by racking up the most kills by any man in his unit. That was his skill. His expertise. And it was no harder to kill a man than it was to hit a paper target.

 

He dropped two of them before they even realized what was happening. He dropped two more before they could find enough coverage behind their bikes and ducked out of sight. He exhaled in one long breath, trying to regain his control and think rationally through the situation. All he had to do was kill them. Then they could drive away. Leave Jon and the Wolves to clean up this mess. But the cops had to be coming. Or was it a sheriff? Did Wyoming even have a police force?

 

“Don’t shoot!” The leader yelled and Sandor felt like cursing. It was a simple rule, to kill the leader first. He’d failed and that meant they were still in danger. “We just want her. We just want the girl. You give us her, nothing will happen to you.”

 

“Fucking likely.” Sandor muttered, reloading. He could see Sansa’s fingertips and they were shaking. He wondered if she thought he’d betray her. He hoped she knew better.

 

“We’ll split the reward, promise.” He was yelling. “Joff’s offering a million dollars for her. We’ll give you ten percent of it.”

 

“Ten percent of nothing is still nothing, you cunt.” Sandor muttered under his breath, then aimed the gun out again. How many did he have left? It felt like he’d been here in this shitty motel room for a thousand years. He had to calm down, bring himself back to that centered place. He had to protect Sansa. That was what mattered here. How many did he have left to kill? How many stood between their freedom?

 

Time went too fast and too slow. He didn’t know if he was speeding it up or making it slow down. Bullets traveled through molasses, and his limbs wouldn’t do what they were told. Then he blinked and more men were dropped to the ground, blood pooling out of them and he wasn’t sure how they got there. All he knew was Sansa, and the sound of her sharp breathing and her trembling fingertips.

 

For what might have been six years or six seconds, there was silence. He didn’t know how many were dead; he’d lost track. That was stupid. He was getting old and sloopy. Once he had been so good at this, hadn’t he? The best. God, what he’d give to still be that young stupid boy that thought he could live through anything. Now he was old and wise and knew how close death could come.

 

“Jon.” Sansa was whispering. “Where’s Jon?”

 

“I don’t know little bird.” Sandor muttered. “But we need to go.”

 

“Jon.” Sansa scooted out from under the bed and tried to keep taking deep breaths. He thought, vaguely, that she was going into shock. “I need to make sure Jon is ok first.”

 

“No time.” He shoved the bag at her. “Sansa, we need to run, now. There’s a fucking billion of those fucking Freys and they’re coming for us. No, get--” He grabbed the top of her head and yanked her away from the window. “Down! Hells girl, do you have an ounce of self preservation?”

 

“Jon.” Sansa muttered, still trying to evade his grasp. “Where’s Jon?”

 

“Fucking--” He muttered, yanking her back to him, enclosing her in his grasp. “Hell. Sansa, we need to go. You can worry about Jon when I’m not so worried about you, do you--”

 

She didn’t have time to give him an answer. She looked up wide blue eyes at the window and they were lit up by a spark. Not of madness or mischief or rage or happiness. It was a spark of real fire, of flames, and a second later a bottle with a flaming rag stuck in it soared through the window and landed on the polyester comforter on the bed. The fading flower print caught fire faster than real flowers might have.

 

He was still holding tight to Sansa but he was frozen in place, watching the flames. They licked from the sheets to the bed frame in seconds, and then the crumbling wallpaper took up the cause. Sandor had no more than a few moments before the whole room was engulfed in his worst nightmares. Flames surrounded them on all sides quickly, and he was choked by fear and smoke.

 

“It’s ok.” Sansa’s voice was in his ear and he wasn’t sure if it was real or his brain trying to save him. It didn’t matter. “C’mon Sandor, c’mon. Let’s get out of here. Come with me, Sandor. Come with me.” She was pulling him towards the door and he knew outside there were bullets but inside there were flames and there was one way he vowed he would never die.

 

He followed her out, half conscious to that fact that he needed to be between her and the danger, but they were surrounded on all sides. His gun hung heavy and useless at his side, but some part of him knew enough to raise it and aim it over Sansa’s shoulder. Keep her safe. Keep her safe. Keep her safe. It was his mantra. It was his meaning. It was his purpose.

 

Coughing, trying to clean his lungs and eyes of the smoke that was choking him, he heard the rumble of thunder. He wondered if it was coming to douse the fires, to make the world clean again, when lights swung into the parking lot. The remaining men turned to look and Sandor’s heart rose. It wasn’t thunder then, but it was a savior. It was Jon, and he led his pack to them.

 

Sandor didn’t know how he got through the hail of bullets. He didn’t know how he got Sansa onto his bike, or how they pulled away from the bullets and the flames. All he knew was that they were heading away from the burning building and that Sansa’s thin arms were tight around his stomach. All that mattered, and he wouldn’t let himself stop and think of the could have beens. Should have beens.

 

They were in Idaho before he even became conscious of what was happening. What he was doing, where he was going. He stopped and pulled to the side of the road, and promptly lost the contents of his stomach. He was sitting up, weakly, when he turned back to look at Sansa. Worry instantly blossomed in him when he saw how awful she looked.

 

Her pupils were massive and she was swaying in her seat. She stood, clumsily, and followed his example by puking all over. She looked at him with glassy eyes that couldn’t focus and when he reached for her, she stumbled into his arms.

 

“Sorry.” She muttered, her eyes closing. “S’dark. I’ma go, San.... San….”

 

“Hey, hey, hey,” He propped her up, desperately trying to get her to open her eyes again. “Stay awake. Come on little bird. Come on, stay with me.” He tried to think of when the hell she would’ve gotten a concussion. Then he remembered his body slam and winced. His fault, again. He always broke the delicate things. She was no different. “Sansa, hey.”

 

“Ah.” Sansa shifted in protest and when he looked down, he went pale. There, slowly oozing from her side, was the unmistakable sticky warmth of blood. Her shirt was saturated with it, and her outer jacket was stained a murky brown as well.

 

“Were you hit?” He demanded, lowering her to the ground. Some remnant of his training took over, and he was pulling layers off her, trying to see the damage done. “Why didn’t you say anything, you fucking idiot, Sansa, why didn’t you tell me? You need help, you need a hospital, you---”

 

He finally ripped her shirt open, using it to wipe away the blood, looking desperately for an entry or exit wound, wondering how badly she’d been hurt. Some part of him remembered how to cry when he finally saw what the wound was. She’d been grazed with a bullet, leaving a long, angry gash that should need stitches, but would be fine with a homemade bandage.

 

“San…” She muttered, moving feebly in protest as he began to wrap a tight strip of fabric around her torso. He ran a large hand over her head as she did so.

 

“It’s ok,” He promised her. “It’s ok. I’m right here. I’m right here, Sansa. It’s alright, I promise. You’re going to be fine, just fucking fine…” His fingers trembled, but he kept going, kept tying cloth around her, praying to the empty air that she would be fine. Once he had her bandaged up to what might be deemed passable, he hurried to the backpack, yanking clothes out of it. He had to dress her clumsily, more eager to keep her warm than anything else. The moon hung above them, low and full, casting the only light for him to see. It made her skin glow, like she was made of the moon as well, kindred spirits. He couldn’t do anything but desperately try to keep her warm and get her to open her eyes.

 

He sang to her, rocked her back and forth, tried to keep her warm. He told her awful army jokes, and buried his face in her hair when he felt like he was going to cry. He tried to think of what they were going to do next, where they were going to go. Then he just held her closer, and tried to stop his body from betraying him with it’s terror and trembling. He needed to be strong for her.

 

In the end, he wrapped her up tightly and seated her in front of him like she was a child once more, and secured one arm around her waist to keep her steady to him. Then he drove, and looked desperately for somewhere they’d be safe. Jon had said Idaho was safe, but after the Frey ambush, Sandor would take no chances, not even hospitals. He had to get her home. He had to get her somewhere safe.

 

He kept driving, until the sunrise surprised him by warming his back. He hadn’t truly been aware of the passage of time since he’d ran, and for a second, he wasn’t sure how they’d gotten here. He wasn’t sure what day it was, or even who he was. He was wavering and the world was going fuzzy around the edges. He needed rest and sleep, or he was going to crash them into the mountainside.

 

He found a tiny town, with a motel whose sign hung crooked and faded. The only light was in that of the office. Sandor hesitated, wondering if he could leave Sansa out of the bike. She was slumped forward, bundled in shirts and coats and though he couldn’t see any blood, he knew she would look awful if anyone saw her closely. But he didn’t want to leave her, not even for a second. He hadn’t been half as evasive as he should’ve been, with all the men that might have followed him from Wyoming.

 

He decided to risk going in alone, and left Sansa on the bike. He didn’t try to cajole her into awaking. He would do that soon enough, when he had someplace they could hide. So he walked into the office, trying not to look too horrific in front of the man seated at the desk. He needn’t have worried; the man looked as bad as Sandor felt. He was missing several teeth, and one eye was nothing but a milky film. Sandor glanced back to make sure that Sansa was still alright.

 

“One room?” The man’s voice was oddly robotic and Sandor saw why after a moment. A lifetime of smoking had left him with a tube in his throat. Sandor nodded and slipped him a couple bills, waiting to get a key in return. The man slowly slid one towards him, turning his lone gaze onto Sandor’s bike, where Sansa was still waiting, face hidden from view.

 

“Just one night.” Sandor said forcefully and after a moment, the eyes reached to his own, and he saw something in them that unnerved him deeply.

 

“She’s not well.” The words were dark and the tone darker still. Sandor’s hand tightened around the key until it bit into his skin.

 

“She’s tired.” He said simply, turning on his heel and striding out. He gathered Sansa in his arms and carried her to their room, kicking the door open and walking through it to deposit her on the bed. He brought everything in, and locked the door behind them, drawing the curtain shut tightly.

 

“San… Dor…” Sansa moaned from the bed and he turned to her instantly.

 

“Hey, hey, hey, hey…” He said, settling down next to her carefully, trying not to jostle her any worse. “Can you sit up for me?”

 

“Ow.” Sansa’s hand fluttered down to her side and he winched.

 

“I know, I know little bird. You’re ok, but you need to sit up. Have something to eat and drink.” He encouraged her, helping her to scoot up the headboard until she was sitting up. He offered her some trail mix and a bottle of water. Sansa kept making tiny noises of pain, little gasps and sighs, as she feebly ate a few of the nuts and took a tiny sip of water.

 

“No.” She whispered, when he tried to give her more. “Please, no.”

 

“Sansa, you have to.” He argued, frustrated that even now, even here, she kept her polite little words. “I need you to eat. You have a concussion and it’s… Bad.” He admitted.

 

“It… Hurts…” She protested, gesturing to her side.

 

“I know.” He whispered, leaning forward and sighed heavily. His head fell onto her legs and it suddenly felt too heavy to lift again. “I’m sorry little bird, I’m sorry I didn’t protect you. I hurt you, I hurt you, and… And… This is all my fault, it’s all my fucking fault. I’m a fucking monster, a goddamn monster, and I’m not meant for things like you. It’s all me, Sansa, it’s all on me. You deserve better, you deserve more, and I’m so sorry that… That I couldn’t… I can’t… Fuck, Sansa.” He was weeping then.

 

“Sandor…” Sansa’s voice was no more than a whisper. “Please.”

 

“What?” He lifted his head up to look at her. She weakly reached for him, and after a moment, he understood what she meant. He laid his head, carefully, near hers. She rested one tiny palm on his cheek and shut her eyes. He tried to resist, to tell her that she needed to stay awake or her concussion was only going to get worse, but then there was nothing but black.

 

When he awoke, it was to Sansa crying out softly in pain. He bolted upright, looking in alarm at her. She was slumped in the doorway, half stripped of her layers, one hand pressed to her side and the other to her head. Sandor tried to get up, stumbling towards her. Sansa looked up, mouth pulled in a tight line and eyes hazy with pain. He reached her and knelt down.

 

“It’s ok.” She whispered, as he righted her, gently removing her shirt.

 

“You shouldn’t have tried to do anything without waking me.” He urged her. “Are you mad? You’re hurt Sansa, badly, and I fucking--” He cut himself off quickly.

 

“What… Happened?” She asked him and he frowned at her as she tried to stand again.

 

“Sansa, no, sit, you… What do you remember?” He asked her, guiding her into the bathroom. She swayed where she stood, then promptly began to try to unravel her bandages.

 

“This hurts.” She muttered and he caught her elbow, halting her from pulling any more off. He did it instead, peeling away the clothes that were crusty with dried blood and setting them aside.

 

“I know.” He said quietly, then glared at her. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were shot?”

 

“I was shot?” Sansa blinked, the news affecting her far less than he had imagined it would. “But who shot me? Why did they?”

 

“The Freys.” He said carefully and Sansa didn’t seem confused or outraged by it. She was as placid as a child, letting him undress her, occasionally wincing when she was forced to twist in a way that didn’t suit her or her injuries, but otherwise quiet.

 

“Why did they shoot me?” She asked then, once she was down to her sports bra and underwear. He stared at her, unsure of what was to come now.

 

“Because they knew who you were, and who Jon was.” He reminded her and Sansa, busy turning on the shower, turned to look at him with bewilderment.

 

“My brother Jon?” The water splashed off the walls, dropping splatters on Sansa’s skin and hair. “Where is my brother Jon?”

 

“Nevermind.” Sandor said quickly. If she did not remember now, he did not want to be the one who reminded her that her brother was in danger. “Do you want to shower?”

 

“Oh.” Sansa turned to the water like she’d forgotten she’d begun it. “Yes.”

 

“Ok.” He hesitated in the doorway. “I should… Help. If you slip or fall or…” He trailed off, tempted not to think about his motives, innocent or awful as they were.

 

“Ok.” Sansa was unbothered and instantly peeled off her bra, dropping it off to the side. Sandor made a noise between a shout and a whimper, staying her hand when she went to hook her thumbs on the waistband of her underwear.

 

“Wait, Sansa.” He said, looking high up at the ceiling to keep himself from seeing things that she didn’t want to show him. “Do you know who I am?”

 

“You’re Sandor.” She said promptly.

 

“Aye, but do you know who I am?” He asked desperately, her thin wrist in his hand. “Do you remember how we met, where we are?”

 

“I don’t…” He felt her turning, looking around. “I don’t know where we are. And we met… Somewhere. I don’t know that either.”

 

“Do you know why I’m here?” He questioned her, squeezing her wrist tightly.

 

“You protect me.” Sansa said instantly and he paused, both stunned and oddly proud that even here, with an awful concussion that he suspected had scrambled her memories, she remembered his one goal. She knew his purpose even then.

 

“Do you know why you trust me?” He asked her, and this question was not quite to test her injury but more a question that he needed an answer, for his own desires.

 

“Because I love you.” Sansa replied, as if it was obvious and his gaze snapped to hers in astonishment. After a second in his stunned disbelief, she managed to tug her wrist away and in a flash, was naked and in the shower. He hardly saw a thing, given he was so dumbfounded by her answer. The curtain closed on her and Sandor was left sitting outside, trying to puzzle through his confusion while also listening carefully for any sound of her distress should anything happen.

 

What the hell did she mean by that?  

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa’s concussion symptoms turned for the worst as they passed through Idaho. She complained of headaches and whimpered when she had to face sunlight. She was irritable, and still confused, so Sandor had no chances to try and understand her words. Occasionally, she’d be mostly coherent, asking him where they were. She didn’t seem to remember anything about why they were running, only that she had been with him for some time, and that he was trustworthy.

 

He desperately wanted to leave her at the California border. She was nothing but trouble, and he was a blind fool not seeing it sooner. He’d been pretending for so long that this was going to be some short term arrangement; that he’d leave her safe and sound at home, then disappear into the wind like he’d done a hundred times before. Go, start a new life all over again, and forget her.

 

But then she’d cry about for him, or turn into him to shield herself from the brightness of the sun, or would take his hand like she was lost and he was her anchor to this world, and then he was absolutely certain that the only important thing in the world was taking care of her, keeping her safe, never leaving her side. And that would inevitably lead him back to her words.

 

_Because I love you._

 

He had no idea what that meant. His beliefs swung from dismissing it harshly to embracing it wholeheartedly. One moment, he was scolding himself. She was concussed. Confused. She was vomiting and slurring her words, forgetting where she was and who she was occasionally. She probably didn’t even understand who he was, just some thug that kept her safe. She didn’t know the words she spoke, and even if she had, she never would’ve meant them if she hadn’t been hurt.

 

But then the next, he thought about her. Laughing, tossing her hair over her shoulder, glancing back to him with sparkling eyes. What if she did love him? He’d love her back, fiercely, utterly, wholeheartedly. He would pick her up, swinging her around until she laughed in glee. She’d kiss his cheek, until he put her down on the grass, somewhere soft and warm, and just watch her, as she talked and smiled at him, until he kissed her because he could. Because she loved him.

 

He wanted her happiness, and he was by turns, convinced she would never find it with him, and selfishly certain that he was the only one who could provide her such. What did other boys know about her? Did they know the way she would draw at night, trying to get the nightmares on the page and out of her head before she shut her eyes and went to sleep?

 

Did they know about how she hated being too hot when she slept, and that the further into the mountains they went, the better she slept with a window cracked to let in fresh air? Had they been there when she’d drawn a gun, all flashing eyes and flashing steel? Would they even see how beautiful she was, shivering in the thin light of the morning, looking out over the stunning vistas that would ever pale in comparison to her? Did they even care that she was the strongest woman he’d ever known?

 

He couldn’t imagine her being with anyone else without wanting to growl and rip something to shreds in his hands. He hated the idea that she would kiss anyone else. Love them. Desire them. Give them her sweet, soft smiles, or muttered jokes that never failed to make him laugh. To even picture her face screwed up in happiness someone else gave her was too much.

 

So he kept driving, kept trying to get her out of his mind, when she sat firmly behind him, her soft body pressed to his, damning him to stay.

 

“Look, little bird.” He called, when they passed through Oregon, slipping ever closer to the coast. “Signs for California.”

 

“No.” Sansa cried, turning her head into his shoulder blade. The sun was weak through clouds in the fall sky, but it still must’ve been too bright for her. She had Sandor’s hoodie over her head, and her hair was a tangled mess beneath it. She hadn’t braided or combed it, and he hadn’t a clue how to do anything like that. He wished he could clean her up, make her nice and neat for her family. They had to only be a couple hours away. They had to be close. She was almost home.

 

“We’re almost there, little bird.” He told her, reflecting wryly that now he was the chirping one, desperate to fill the silence. That had always been her at first, before she’d settled into the fact that quiet didn’t mean angry, it just meant calm. She’d learned to appreciate it then, and their easy, sweet silences had grown to be some of his favorite moments.

 

“No.” She whimpered again and he used one hand to drive while dropping the other to rub her knee. Her jeans were threadbare and worn from heavy wear. He remembered the jeans she’d worn the first time he’d ever seen her, and wondered what she would look like it clothes that were her own, chosen for style and fit, rather than out of desperation.

 

“It’s okay.” He told her, unsure of why. “It’s going to be alright, little bird. You’re almost home.” Her only response was to tighten her fingers into his kutte.

 

He watched the signs pass with a mixture of relief and trepidation. She was almost back where she belonged. He just had to get her across the border. He could puzzle out his shifting feelings then, once he’d gotten her to where her family was.

 

The sign for California loomed large. Winterfell couldn’t be too far. He’d seen it on the maps that Joffrey had lorded over, drawing up ridiculous battle lines aimed straight at the heart of the north. It sat near the border, so NorCal it was nearly out of California. He wondered, idly, as he took a back road to avoid any sighting of them on the main roads, if he would know the place from Sansa’s drawings alone.

 

The road in front of him was one of gravel, and the trees alongside it were beginning to shed their leaves. It was a bright show and Sandor debated stopping so that Sansa could take a look at them. She loved beautiful things like that. He was so lost in his train of thought that he didn’t even pay attention to the little voice in his head, that of a soldier, that of a warrior, whispering.

 

Something was wrong, but he was so blinded by Sansa that he didn’t take the time to stop and figure out what it was that was making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  

 

The first gunshot took him by surprise.

 

Sansa cried out while he cursed, trying to not to swerve on the gravel. It had been fired from ahead of them, and it had been a warning shot, high and to the left. Not trying to hit them then, but enough to let them know that whoever it was could hit them, if they so desired. He brought the bike to a stop, looking desperately around for somewhere they could take cover.

 

“No, no, no, no, no…” Sansa was muttering and he tried to put his body between her and the shooter, frantically looking at the trees and fences, none of would be enough.

 

“It’s ok,” He told her automatically, slowly getting off the bike. Surrender was the only option here. He could hear more bikes coming in the distance from behind him. It would be no time at all before he was blocked in from all sides. “It’s alright little bird. Nothing will happen to you.”

 

They should’ve been safe. Here, in the north, this close to her home, her family, it should’ve been safe. He should’ve done his job, gotten her home. He didn’t understand who this could be, who would be shooting at Sansa Stark, the daughter of Winterfell, the blood of the north. He had a moment of panic, heart sinking, wondering if Robb had lost the north on their flight and this was all for naught. He should’ve taken her east, he thought desperately, he should’ve done--

 

“Let the girl go.” The command was ordered by a short figure in all black, who emerged from a tree like a panther. Sandor stared at the small, lithe form in confusion and astonishment. How the hell had they gotten there? Who the hell was it? It was a small boy, thin and wiry, but with a very real gun in his hands, aimed directly at Sandor's head, and not at Sansa.

 

“No.” He said cautiously. Sansa was pressed behind him and he used a large hand to gently pull her even closer. “She’s not going to anyone but her family and I’ll fucking kill anyone who tries to hurt her, you understand me, you cunt?”

 

“I know who you are.” The boy snarled, taking a step closer. All Sandor saw were grey eyes, bright with anger. “Sandor Clegane, the Hound, Lannister dog. You took her. What did you do, rape her? Beat her? What did you do to her?”

 

“Nothing!” He roared. “I kept her safe! I never laid a damn finger on her!”

 

“No.” Sansa muttered, giving his ribs a squeeze and he felt the panic rising, choking him. The bikes behind him were coming closer still and the boy in front of him seemed not to waver. “No,” Sansa repeated, and then stepped out from behind him.

 

“No!” He yelled, trying to reach her while watching as the gun never once wavered from his head. The boy watched as Sansa walked towards him, slowly, unsteadily. “Sansa.” Sandor whispered, anguished. “Sansa, please, stop. Don’t. Sansa, you can’t…”

 

But Sansa was still walking towards the boy, utterly unfearing as she did so. The boy kept glancing at her, as though he didn’t quite believe she was real. Sansa pulled her hood down and out tumbled her dark hair, though starting to streak through it was the copper shade he loved so well. She was almost her again, and he was just about to lose her.

 

“I’m ok,” Sansa was telling the boy, walking up to him with outstretched hands. “I’m ok, I promise. He kept me safe. I came home. I came home, Arya. Let’s go home.”

 

 _Arya._ He stopped, freezing, and realized that he knew those grey eyes. They were those of Jon. They had stared up at him from pieces of paper for weeks now. As she tugged her layers away, he saw the narrow face Sansa had so lovingly recreated over and over. Her little sister. She was indeed home then. He’d done it. He’d gotten her to safety. He relaxed, just enough.

 

The second gunshot dropped him to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously peeps come yell in the comments it's my actual favorite thing and it truly makes monday all the better knowing i get to converse with all y'all. blessings!


	18. Dream, Bishop Briggs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so here we are again back for another chapter i am so thankful and happy that none of you tried murdering me in my sleep i hope this chapter makes up for it 
> 
> also ten points if anyone spots where i referenced this song in an earlier chapter
> 
> okay plz enjoy

Sansa struggled to wake up. It was far too slow and she knew that something, something was urgent, but she didn’t know what and she just couldn’t force her eyes open, it was taking far too long… She tried to pry her eyes open, but a pounding in her skull forced her back down into the depths of darkness and she was lost once again to dreamless, deep sleep.

 

The second time she tried to awaken she was more successful. She managed to open her eyes, croaking out with a uselessly dry throat. Something important was happening; she wasn’t sure what, but she needed to do something urgently. She looked around, hazy, and realized she was back in her bedroom at Winterfell. How’d she get there? Why did her head hurt so damn bad?

 

“Don’t try to get up.” A soft voice ordered her and Sansa’s heart missed a beat. Was that her mother? She tried to turn her head, heart in her throat, and then felt like crying when she saw it was only Old Nan, who’d once been married into the club, and had since raised more Stark children than Sansa could count. She was fussing over Sansa’s pillows.

 

“I need to…” Sansa trailed off, unsure of what she needed to do.

 

“Don’t worry.” That voice Sansa did know and she turned to the doorway. There stood a woman, tall and blonde, fair of face and utterly serious. Brienne. “He’s gone, Sansa. He can’t hurt you anymore. He’s going to Robb, to answer for his crimes.”

 

“What?” Sansa demanded quickly, sitting upright. Pain sparked through her side and head and she winched, groaning slightly. Her bed felt like a cloud after weeks on hard mattresses. “Who? Where’s he going? Where’s my mom?”

 

“You should rest.” Brienne said soothingly, but Sansa ignored her and tried to get out of bed, nearly slipping on the hardwood floor.

 

“All I’ve done is fucking rest.” She said, steading herself on the bed frame as Old Nan hovered, like it was going to do her any good to support Sansa. “Brienne, where is my mother?”

 

“She’s with your brother.” Brienne admitted, after a pause. Sansa remembered Robb, remembered his march south. For what? Joffrey. Those memories only made her head hurt more. What was she trying to do? What had been so urgent?

 

“Where?” Sansa asked, head spinning. Who was going to answer for crimes? What crimes? Why was something so wrong?

 

“They’re set up down in the city, with the charter in Tumblers Falls.” Brienne told her and something clicked in Sansa’s brain. Robb was down south, fighting a war. A stupid war with Joffrey Lannister, who’d killed her father. Sandor. Where was he? Why wasn’t he here beside her? Was he the one going to her brother to answer for his crimes?

 

“No.” Sansa stumbled forward and Brienne’s steady hands caught her. “Where is… Where’s… Everyone?” Who was even left?

 

“Arya is out on watch.” Brienne said gently and Sansa cried out as she remembered. Arya had stopped them. Sandor had tried to protect her, but Sansa hadn’t needed protecting. Not from Arya. Not from her sister. They could fight like wolves, but they were of the same blood. They were a pack.

 

And then Arya had shot Sandor, and Sansa had passed out.

 

“Sandor!” She grabbed Brienne’s wrist tightly. “Where’s Sandor? Is he ok?”

 

“Sansa, calm down.” Brienne said in alarm, as Sansa tried to walk away. “You’re going to hurt yourself! You’ve got stitches and a nasty concussion and you’re probably dehydrated and malnourished. You’re not strong enough for this yet.”

 

“Where is he?” Sansa’s nails dug into Brienne’s skin.

 

“He’s being taken to Robb.” Brienne soothed her. “He can’t hurt you anymore, ok? You’re safe from him now Sansa, I promise.”

 

“No.” Sansa said, frantically trying to reach the stairs. She didn't have time to explain to Brienne how big of an idiot she was, how wrong she was. None of that mattered anymore. All that mattered was keeping Sandor safe from her wolves.

 

“Sansa,” Brienne tried to stop Sansa from leaving her room. “You need to rest, you need to lay back down or you’re going--”

 

“Get me the phone then.” Sansa didn’t stop fighting. “I need to talk to Robb, now!”

 

“And it can’t wait?” Brienne demanded. “I know you missed him Sansa, but he and your mother both know that you’re safe, it’s fine.”

 

“It’s not fine!” Tears began to pour down Sansa’s face. “Robb’s going to hurt him and I promised he wouldn’t! I promised! He’s mine, he’s mine, I’m his, he kept me safe and now I have to keep him safe, but I can’t if Robb hurts him!”

 

“What?” Brienne looked at her in a mixture of confusion and pity. “Sansa, no, it’s ok. You’re confused. This is a good thing.”

 

“HELP ME!” Sansa bellowed, startling both Brienne and Old Nan. “HELP ME! I NEED THE PHONE! PLEASE, SOMEONE, HELP!”

 

“Alright, alright.” Brienne hushed her. “Get back in bed and I’ll get you the phone to call Robb, alright? Sansa, please calm down or you’re going to pop a sitch!”

 

“Ok.” Calming, Sansa let herself be guided back to bed. Stitches. So that was the pain in her side then. She still had no idea where those came from. Brienne settled her in and went for the phone. Sansa turned to look at Old Nan, who was watching her with shrewd eyes.

 

“Dogs are loyal as wolves.” She muttered, before going back to her knitting and Sansa would have agreed, but her head was pounding. She tried to get the pain to lessen, when Brienne came back with the phone in her hand. She offered it to Sansa, her face closed off.

 

“Thank you.” Sansa said quietly, as she dialed the number Brienne had entered and put the phone to her ear, listening as it rang, feeling like her skull was going to split. It took several rings, but then, finally, a gruff male voice answered with a terse,

 

“Hello?”

 

“Robb.” She whispered, tears springing up anew and there was a long pause of stunned disbelief, before she heard him drop something.

 

“Sanny?” He asked, his voice breaking slightly.

 

“Yeah.” She whispered. “It’s me, Robb, it’s me.”

 

“Are you ok?” It sounded like he was moving, crashing through things, his breathing uneven. “Are you home? Is everything ok?”

 

“Yes, yes, yes.” She said impatiently. “But Robb, listen to me. Listen to me, please. Is Sandor there yet? Is he with you?”

 

“Clegane?” The commotion stopped, as though Robb has frozen in his confusion. “No, he’s not here yet Sanny, but he’s on his way and I am going to make him pay, I promise you, he won’t--”

 

“Robb.” Sansa cut him off. “Listen to me very carefully. If you hurt a hair on that man’s head, I will cut off your balls and make them into a chew toy for Grey Wind, do you hear me?”

 

“What?” Robb’s voice was filled with anger, confusion, horror, frustration, bewilderment. “Sansa! You have to be kidding me! He hurt you!”

 

“No, he kept me safe. He is the best goddamn thing to ever happen to me Robb, and if you hurt him, I’m never going to forgive you.” She threatened. “Listen to him. Everything he says is the truth, do you hear me? Listen to him Robb. Then send him home to me, if that’s what he wants.”

 

“Are you crazy?” Robb was clearly struggling with his anger and losing. “Sansa, he was a Lannister! He was a Lion! He was one of them!”

 

“Look at his kutte when he gets there. It’ll be blank.” Sansa said icly. “He’s not anyone’s Robb, least of all Joffrey’s. He kept me safe there.” Her memories were still beyond reach, grey and hazy, but she had feelings and those she was certain of.

 

“And when he shows his true colors? Demands money for you? What would you have me do then, Sanny? Pay him and let him go?” Robb demanded hotly.

 

“He won’t ask for money.” Sansa said, sure of herself. “He won’t, Robb. He’s good. You’ll see. Let him speak. Hear him out. He wants to fight for you, I promise.”

 

“You’re hurt.” Robb suddenly sounded far older than his years, like he was bone deep exhausted. “You need to get better. Brienne said you look awful.”

 

“How kind of her.” Sansa said dryly, before catching sight of herself in the mirror. Brienne might’ve had a point. She did look bad, with her matted hair, dull skin, and scrawny frame. For once, even Arya might’ve looked better. “I love you.”

 

“I love you too Sanny.” He softened slightly. “I’m glad you’re home safe, you fucking idiot. We can fight about that later, ok?”

 

“Ok.” She agreed, savouring her brother’s voice.

 

“Hey, I have to go. I don’t know where mom is - maybe she’ll call later - I have to go!” There was distant yelling, and Robb was drifting away.

 

“Don’t hurt him!” Sansa yelled once more, before the line went dead and he was gone. She looked down at the phone, slightly defeated. She’d have to call and plead again, make sure that she was heard and understood, but right now, her head was threatening to burst.

 

“Loyal.” Old Nan repeated and Sansa wondered, absentmindedly, when the club was going to put her in a nursing home for good.

 

“Brienne.” She called and after a moment, her mother’s bodyguard appeared in the doorway. Sansa swallowed all her questions and instead gave a wane smile. “Sorry. Can you help me get cleaned up? Then I’ll stay in bed, quiet as a mouse, I promise.”

 

“Fine.” Brienne caved when Sansa lifted her arms up like a child and bent to pick her up, carrying her to the bathroom. Sansa took a shower, inspecting her stitches carefully, wondering where the hell they came from before reaching for her shampoo. When she lathered her hair, the water ran brown at her feet and she kept scrubbing, like it was going to reveal the red beneath it. If she was herself again, perhaps she would remember again as well. She kept hoping.

 

After her shower, Sansa made good on her promise to Brienne and ate something before crawling back into bed. She leaned that Bran had gone to school while Arya was on watch. Rickon had taken to the woods, Brienne explained, with all of the wolves. He hadn’t came out, and that had been almost a week ago. Osha knew where he was, but refused to reveal it to them. He was grieving, was her explanation.

 

After some tea, her headache became too much, and Sansa was forced back into sleep, utterly against her will. She dreamt of the stars hanging above the mountains.

 

Something was nudging her cheek. It was wet and Sansa groaned slightly, trying to push whatever it was away. It was gross, and she was tired. When it persisted, Sansa frowned and cracked her eyes open slightly, trying to discover what was waking her up. When her blue eyes landed on the deep, soulful brown set amongst white and grey fur, she gasped.

 

“Lady.” She sat up, her arms going around her neck instantly. Lady rested her muzzle on Sansa’s shoulder and whined, lowly. Sansa entangled her fingers in Lady’s fur and cried into her neck, sobbing out her relief. When she was with Lady, everything felt better. It was a moment before she realized that more than just Lady’s weight rested against her and she drew back, looking around her.

 

Lady was near on her lap, but beside her lay Shaggydog, his dark fur already all over her bedspread. Near her knees was Nymeria, blinking slowly, watching Sansa with her all knowing eyes. Ghost was at the foot of her bed, his red eyes fixed on hers. He reminded her of Jon and she wondered why her memories of Jon seemed so important, but so far away.

 

“Sansa.” A voice for the doorway muttered. She and Shaggydog looked at the same time, and Sansa’s eyes filled with tears as Shaggydog leapt down to meet Rickon in the doorway.

 

“Hi.” Sansa croaked, around her tears. He wasn’t her baby brother anymore, not really, and it seemed like while she’d been gone he’d grown six inches and lost all his baby fat. He stared at her with eyes that so closely mirrored her own, just a few shades darker. Shaggydog stood beside him and Rickon reached down, taking a fistful of his black hair, not taking a step closer.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” He asked her plainly.

 

“Concussion.” Sansa gimanced. “I hit my head, really hard. I don’t remember some stuff but I’m feeling a lot better, I promise.”

 

“Like what happened when I fell out of the tree?” Rickon asked slowly and Sansa nodded, remembering when he’d cracked his skull open when he was 7.

 

“Exactly. Come here, I want to see you.” She patted the spot Shaggy had left open and Rickon slowly came towards her. His hair, a deeper auburn than her own, was nearly down to his shoulders, and a streak of dirt marred his cheek. Scratches and bruises covered his arms, and dirt made his nails black, but when Sansa smelled him, the familiar tang of pine trees, smoke, and wild freshness, she smiled. It was still him.

 

“Everyone left me.” He whispered, curling up beside her and Sansa gently ran her nails over his back, settling beside him.

 

“I know.” She whispered back. “But I’m going to get them back Rickon, I promise. We’re going to have our family back again.”

 

“Everyone just leaves again.” He muttered and Sansa’s fingers tightened in the wild curls of his hair. “And they don’t come back.”

 

“They’re going to come back.” Sansa vowed. “They’re going to come back.”

 

“Dad didn’t.” Rickon said quietly and Sansa had no reply but to hold him tightly and ignore the tears rolling down her cheeks.

 

* * *

 

 

Brienne allowed her to get up and move around. Rickon drifted back outside and Sansa let him go. He was searching for something in those woods and she hoped he found it. She was helping Old Nan make a lunch when the door opened and the familiar pattern of two feet and a cane on hardwood floor made Sansa stop and look up, gasping. Bran smiled slightly at her, shrugging off a backpack.

 

“Bran!” She raced for him, uncaring that the soup she was preparing was probably burning. She flung her arms around him tightly, holding him close.

 

“Glad to see you’re up and about.” He said quietly and Sansa leaned back, trying to drink him in. Same dark hair and soulful eyes, pale skin and thin body. Then she saw the changes in him.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sansa grabbed his chin and yanked it up, staring at Bran’s little bull ring piercing in horror. “Who did that, Arya? I’ll fucking kick her ass.”

 

“Jojen has one too.” He stated and Sansa made a scoffing noise. “Glad to see you home for a day, unconcious for most of it, and still wake up mothering us.”

 

“Well someone has to.” Sansa defended, going back to stir the soup at Bran sat down on a stool worn smooth from years of use. “Where the hell is mom anyways? Where is everyone? What the hell is going on? No one will tell me anything, because no one’s here.”

 

“What do you want to know?” Bran traced whorls and grains in the massive wooden kitchen table. “Where do you want to start?”

 

“I left.” Sansa stirred the zuppa soup. “Everything went to hell. What happened? Where’s Robb, and mom, and Jon, and why the hell is Arya off shooting people?” She took a deep breath and gently set the spoon down, least she throw it somewhere. She didn’t remember much, but she remembered a gunshot and a spray of red from where Arya had clipped his shoulder.

 

“We thought he kidnapped you.” Bran informed her quietly and Sansa avoided his eyes, willing the pounding in her head to abate. She didn’t want to lay in bed anymore. She wanted to do something productive. “He did kidnap you, didn’t he?”

 

“Yes, but not like that.” Sansa retorted. “He did it because Joffrey was going to hurt me.” She saw vague images of a terrible, cruel face, with golden hair and a laughing, red smile. Her memories were coming back slowly, but she wasn’t sure if those were ones she even wanted to remember.

 

“We had no idea where you were.” Bran told her quietly. “When we found out that you’d gotten away from Joffrey and the Hound--”

 

“His name is Sandor.” Sansa said flatly. Bran’s eyes, too wise and knowing for someone still so young, simply blinked slowly.

 

“And Sandor was missing as well,” He said slowly. “Robb and mom assumed the worst. We thought he stole you away and would ransom you or something like that. But then we didn’t hear anything for weeks, Sanny. Nothing. At least not until Jon finally called and said you were safe or at least he thought you were, after the Frey ambush in Wyoming.”

 

“Jon.” Sansa’s hand froze on the bowls she was reaching for. “I saw… Jon.” She recalled bullets and fire and Jon’s yells for her. She remembered him, his tired face, the nomad patch on his kutte. That’s right. Jon. Frey’s. Chaos. “Jon Snow. Bran, is Jon--”

 

“He’s fine.” Bran said quickly and Sansa set the bowls down to fold forward in relief. That night had been fire and blood. “But he said that Sandor was trying to protect you and bring you home.”

 

“Then why the hell did Arya shoot him?” Sansa questioned furiously. “If you knew he was good, knew he was helping me, why did she shoot him and ship him off to Robb?”

 

“Robb’s orders.” Bran said quietly. “He said that the Hound - Sandor - would never go quietly, so it would only work to take him by force.”

 

“Robb’s a fucking idiot.” Sansa declared passionately. “If anyone would’ve thought to just ask, he would’ve gone quietly for me!”

 

“We didn’t know that.” Bran said quietly and Sansa bit her tongue to keep in her remarks, filling two bowls with soup and thrusting one at Bran and the other at Old Nan.

 

“You too.” The old woman ordered and Sansa relented, filling her bowl half full and sitting down across from Bran heavily.

 

“Arya is holding Joffrey responsible for Dad’s death.” Bran’s fingers trembled, just slightly. “She’s going to kill everyone she can between her and him in the meantime.”

 

“Fuck.” Sansa muttered. She wanted to believe it wasn’t true, that her wild little sister wasn’t capable of such a thing, but she knew Arya. She knew her rage. And she knew that Arya had been trained alongside their brothers with guns and knives and everything else. Arya was deadly, and her standoff with Sandor had only been the beginning of it. Sansa rubbed her forehead. “How’s she planning on doing this then? Where’s Pod and Pie and the rest of her ragtag gang?”

 

“They’re the ones who brought you in.” Bran said and Sansa nodded; that it made sense. “They watch Winterfell, make sure no one gets too close. Robb won’t let her leave, so this is as close as she can get to combat. She begged to take Sandor south to Robb but Jory wouldn’t let her.”

 

“Well thank god Jory has some sense at least.” Sansa looked at the window at the wet fall leaves. “And Rickon is feral now.”

 

“Osha makes sure he never goes too far.” Bran said, as Summer padded down the hall and came from them. “And so do the wolves.”

 

“Wild things.” Sansa muttered and wasn’t sure if she was speaking about her brother or the wolves that roamed with him. “And mom? Robb?”

 

“South.” Bran gave a little shrug. “Mom went with him and left Brienne here to watch us, she says. She’s terrified that something’s going to happen to Robb. She won’t leave him.”

 

“What about us?” Sansa’s spoon loudly scrapped against the side of the bowl. “What about her other children, me, Jon, Arya?”

 

“She’s lost.” Old Nan said, placidly spooning soup into her wrinkled mouth. Sansa and Bran both turned to her, confused, but the old woman simply got up and calmly put her bowl in the sink, walking away without a word of explanation.

 

“Robb’s going to win this and come home.” Bran told her, when the shuffling footsteps faded in the distance and Sansa looked at him sadly.

 

“This isn’t a war Bran, it’s just… A cluster.” She rubbed her temples. “When does Arya come home? Does she ever come home? I want to talk to her about her shooting people.”

 

“She’ll come and take food sometimes.” Bran stood slowly and Sansa automatically took his bowl and spoon, carrying them to the sink. “Are you ok? Brienne said you had a concussion and some stitches. Did anything happen to you when you were…”

 

“I’ll tell you about it when I remember.” Sansa told him, looking out over the rainy yard and into the dark forest. “What are you going to do now?”

 

“Paint. Draw. Make music. Read.” Bran gave a little shrug, already retreating towards his sanctuary of the old library. “Join me.”

 

“Maybe in a little bit.” Sansa gave him a small, sad smile. She had missed her brothers, but it felt strange to be with them. “I want to get readjusted, you know?”

 

“Ok.” Bran paused in the doorway. “I’m here if you need me.”

 

“I know.” Sansa put the bowls in the dishwasher as the door slowly shut and a few moments later, the strains of classical music drifted out. Sansa went to the fridge and began pulling things out for sandwiches and other snack items. She packed several brown bags, then grabbed a thick, fuzzy blanket, and went out the front door, onto the porch.

 

She settled on the swing that hung down on the wraparound porch, away from the rain. Lady climbed up next to her and Ghost at her feet, watching the woods. Nymeria sat near the stairs and Sansa knew Arya was coming when her ears perked up. The dark form of Arya came around the corner, stopping when she saw Sansa sitting there, watching her.

 

Arya had always been more of a tomboy than Sansa, but she was even more so now. Dark circles made bags hang low under her eyes and the grey sparked with rage and anger that faded only slightly when she looked at Sansa. She was wearing dark ripped jeans and her black boots that were well worn. A loose shirt and an oversized hoodie protected her from the rain, but still, Sansa saw that her dark hair had been dyed blue at the ends, raggedly chopped and messily pulled back under a beanie.

 

The two girls stopped and stared at each other. For a second, Arya’s gaze flickered to the bags and her lips twitched like she meant to smile, but it was gone as soon as it came. She only moved again when Nymeria padded back under the shelter of the porch roof. Arya followed, walking until she stood in front of Sansa, lowering her hood and appraising her sister.

 

“You ok?” She asked lowly and Sansa gave a tiny shrug, hiking the blanket up higher around her shoulders. She was cold, all the time, now.

 

“I’m ok.” She said quietly. “Are you?”

 

“Fine.” Arya’s head swung towards her, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I’m just fine. I’m not the one who was a fucking hostage.”

 

“You shot him.” Sansa accused.

 

“Who, the guy that was kidnapping you?” Arya folded her arms. “I saved you and this is the thanks I get? You already yelling at me?”

 

“I’m not yelling.” Sansa told her, striving very hard not to raise her voice. “I’m not yelling at all. But Sandor isn’t the enemy.”

 

“Sandor.” Arya looked at his in disbelief. “What, you call him by his first name now? Do you have Stockholm Syndrome? Did he brainwash you?”

 

“No.” Sansa said instantly. “It’s not like that Arya. It doesn’t matter. What matters if you shot him. You can’t just do that!”

 

“It’s my land.” Arya jutted her chin out defiantly. “He was intruding. Robb said--”

 

“I don’t care what Robb said.” Sansa snapped. “It wasn’t right and you knew that. He is a good guy. He was trying to get me home safe! And you went and shot him! What’s wrong with you?”

 

“What’s wrong with me?” Arya cried. “What’s wrong with me? He worked for the guy that killed our dad Sansa, or did you forget that? He helped murder dad!”

 

“He did not.” Sansa said fiercely. “He wasn’t even there Arya! He came later, he didn’t know, he didn’t understand. It was all Joffrey, not Sandor.”

 

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Arya gaped at her. “How crazy you sound? He was paid to keep you hostage! He was going to ransom you!”

 

“Arya.” Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling another headache starting in and frustrated with her sister and herself.

 

“Don’t Arya me.” Her little sister spat. “You’re not mom, and just because you came home to try and be her doesn’t mean you are. I thought you’d be grateful. Happy that I saved you. Happy to be home, where you belong! And instead you’re just complaining about your stupid boyfriend!”

 

“He is not my boyfriend.” Sansa said automatically. He wouldn’t be. He couldn’t be. He never cared for her like that; she was just… Whatever she was to him. She didn’t know. She’d never gotten a chance to ask him before he’d been taken away from her.

 

“Do you even hear yourself?” Arya threw her hands up. “I’m not saying sorry, if that’s what you want me to do. I will not. I’m not sorry for trying to keep you safe.”

 

“I’m not trying to make you say sorry.” Sansa said tiredly. “I’m not trying to fight with you either. I just wanted to explain things to you, and make sure that when he comes back, you don’t try to shoot him again, because then I will be mad.”

 

“He’s coming back?” Arya looked at her as though Sansa had to be kidding. “No, he’s not. You’re lying. Sansa, why the hell would he be coming back? He’s one of them!”

 

“He is not!” Sansa yelled, sick of having to repeat herself over and over. “He’s not! He’s no one’s but himself. He’s not a fucking Lion and he’s going to get Robb’s permission to come back and protect us.” She stated, tightening the blankets around herself. Lady whined loudly.

 

“Oh my god.” Arya looked at her in astonishment. “Do you fucking love him Sansa?”

 

“No.” Sansa’s head was pounding. She scrunched her eyes closed, trying to block out the pain and Arya’s angry, betrayed face.

 

“You ok?” Arya’s tone was one of reluctant concern.

 

“I will be.” Sansa said tightly, rubbing her forehead before opening her eyes. Arya was watching her, lingering like she was going to reach out and help but kept holding herself back. “It’s just my head, it still doesn’t really want to work and this… Doesn’t… Help.” She shivered and Arya pursed her lips.

 

“I can go.” She said reluctantly. “I just came to get some food for us.”

 

“I know.” Sansa gestured to the bags. “Names are on the bag.” She’d made each sandwich in accordance with that person’s preferences. She’d grown up with Arya’s friends and knew most of them just as well as she knew her own sister.

 

“Thanks.” Arya said, grabbing the bags before turning to her sister. Sansa felt bone deep tired, slumping down on the swing. “Sansa, I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

 

“I know.” Sansa muttered, closing her eyes. “I don’t want to fight anymore Arry, I missed you so much. I missed everyone, but really you.”

 

“Do you need to go inside?” Arya set the bags aside and knelt in front of her. Sansa felt like her limbs had stopped working, and a chill was seeping through her, so she nodded heavily. Arya’s thin arms slipped under her and she helped walk her back into the house. She led her to the library, where Bran sat in his massive leather armchair on his computer.

 

“I just need a second to rest.” Sansa muttered as Arya guided her onto the couch and pulled the blankets up around her.

 

“Ok, then rest.” Arya’s fingers were freezing and Sansa wanted to tell her to put on some gloves, but her lips were numb.

 

“I can watch her, don’t worry.” Bran said, from far away and Sansa idly wondered when her siblings had grown up and were able to take care of her and not the other way around, but then she was asleep on a couch that smelled like home.

 

She dreamt of Lady and castles in the sky with pure white walls and towers that disappeared amongst the clouds. She was soaring, flying, weightless and free. She knew there was something evil and dark below, but if she stayed her in her ivory tower, she would be safe and all would be well. She just had to stay with Lady and not tumble down out of the sky.

 

When she woke this time, it was dark out. Lady and Summer were sleeping beneath her on the floor, and Bran was gone, an empty mug of tea all that remained to let Sansa know he’d been there. When she stood and felt the ceramic, it was long cold. She got up, rolling out her neck and noting with happiness that she felt better than she in a long time. Deciding to show and make something of herself, she got up and took the mug into the kitchen, intending to wash it.

 

“Sansa.” She stopped in her tracks when she heard Brienne’s voice. She was sitting in the dark, at the kitchen table, head in hands.

 

“Brienne, is everything alright?” She asked, with concern. Brienne looked at her and suddenly seemed years and ages older. Her eyes were tired and red, as though she’d been doing her best not to cry. She seemed haggarded and exhausted.

 

“No, I’m afraid it’s not.” She said quietly and Sansa quickly set the mug down, going to take Brienne’s hands in hers, kneeling beside her.

 

“What’s wrong?” She asked, fearing the worst. Her mother. Robb. Jon. Even Sandor, though Sansa didn’t know why Brienne would cry for him.

 

“It’s Arya.” Brienne let out a long, shuddering sigh and Sansa’s heart froze, clenching painfully in her chest. “She’s gone south. I have to go after her, but how do I tell your mother I’ve lost yet another one her of daughters when we just got you back?”

 

“Arya what?” Sansa’s frown deepened as she squeezed Brienne’s hands.

 

“Went south.” Brienne repeated. “She left behind Pod and the others. I don’t know where she is or how long it’ll take for her to get there but she’s going to get hurt and if I send a search party after her, they’ll know and she’ll be in even more danger.”

 

“Don’t send a search party.” Sansa’s mind was ticking away, the clearest it’d been in days. “Call my mother, tell her that Arya’s gone but I have the perfect solution.” And, she thought to herself as Brienne rose to get the phone, if it’d worked, she’d never have to give Sandor up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just an fyi i am stuck in a cabin in the remote woods with my life partner's entire family including a two month old so just know that your reviews will be submitted to a very worthwhile cause aka my sanity
> 
> drop them off below please and thank you i love you all so much


	19. Blood On My Name, The Brothers Bright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reasons why you're getting this chapter a day early - it's been a rough fucking week my nerds, I jam real hard to this chapter's song, and I am emo about Robb Stark therefore this is one of my fav chapters of the whole shebang
> 
> plz validate my moodboard for him on tumblr bc i love it so much
> 
> enjoy friends!

His shoulder fucking hurt. He didn’t care if the wolf bitch was Sansa’s sister and she loved her more than anything. His shoulder fucking hurt and it was because she’d had the nerve to shoot him. Who’d do anything like that? She was lucky Sansa had collapsed or he’d have gone for his own gun. As it was, the only reason why he’d gone as quietly as he had was because he knew that if he didn’t, Sansa would’ve been even more distressed. Now that he was caged in a van, he felt like a bigger and bigger idiot.

 

They’d been nice enough to him in the sense that it hadn’t been Arya tasked with transporting him to where the King in the North awaited him. Oh, she’d howled when the older man had ordered her to stay. Murder had been in her eyes as a prospect loaded in him into the back of the van, and he’d wondered if he was actually going to survive this one. They’d even give him a couple painkillers and some woman had cleaned the wound and pronounced him fine. He felt the bullet hole argued otherwise.

 

Now he jolted and bounced down a gravel backroad, his shoulder twinging and aching with each bump, exhaustion settling in. He’d tried to sleep, but the way he was chained to the floor made it uncomfortable to try to lay flat, so he was forced to sit upright. Everything hurt, especially the sight of Sansa falling that kept replaying itself on the back of his eyelids. She had to be alright. She had to be. She was a Stark, for fuck’s sake. Of the north, of Winterfell. She was stronger than anyone he knew. She’d be fine. But he didn’t dare ask. The prospect was a young man, quietly and stone faced. The one time the other man, Jory, had stopped to talk, Sandor heard the thinly veiled threats in his voice and kept his silence.

 

But they had to be getting close to where Robb was. They’d been driving for several hours; he could tell by the rumbling of his stomach and the full bladder that twinged with every jostle. Soon, he’d have to face his day of judgement. But sooner still, he’d have to piss his pants like a goddamn infant. He wondered how hellish he looked. He wondered if Robb Stark would flinch to look at his face. Mostly, he wondered if he would ever see Sansa Stark again.

 

“Alright, get out.” Jory growled, throwing the doors to the van open when they stopped. Sandor squinted at the weak sunlight and wondered if it was rising or setting. The air was chilly, so he assumed it was first light, but he had no time for poetic ruminations on the new day. He was yanked from the back and into an old warehouse. He stepped around broken glass and rubble, wondering if there would even be a trial, or if he’d simply be shot and left to die here. Would Sansa cry for him?

 

“Kneel. Wait here.” A different man ordered, one with grey whiskeys and eyes that burned despite the wrinkles around them. Jory forced Sandor onto his knees and there he waited, hands tied behind his back, like a kicked dog awaiting his owner’s return. It wasn’t long before the rumble of bikes could be heard, and after a few moments, Robb Stark strode in.

 

Sandor noted that Sansa had done well with her drawings. They’d captured Robb’s curly hair and sharp blue eyes, his high cheekbones and strong jaw. He wore all black, with silver rings at his fingers and his kutte buttoned up around him. No crown sat on his head, but the president’s patch on his breast was all he needed. He was tall and fit and looked every inch the young king, in all the ways Joffrey hadn’t.

 

“Sandor Clegane.” His voice had the same lilt as Sansa’s, but rougher, more pronounced. Sandor didn’t know what to say, so he simply said,

 

“Stark.”

 

“Do you know why you’re here?” Robb asked bluntly and he blinked, chancing a look at the men. Some were even older than he was, while a couple were still Sansa’s age. All of them wore black under their kuttes and looked down at him with varying degrees of hatred.

 

“Aye,” He said quietly, the pain in his knees driving the pain of his shoulder out of his mind. “I have a good idea why.”

 

“Care to share?” Robb demanded icly, when he was silent.

 

“I was employed by Joffrey Lannister.” He said quietly, seeing the men shift around in anger and disgust. “I was his personal bodyguard. He hired me after he’d killed Ned Stark, your father.”

 

“One of his many crimes to be answered for, yes,” Robb snapped. “But why are you here Clegane?” Sandor sighed heavily then lifted his head to look Robb directly in his eyes. Sansa’s eyes.

 

“Because I protected your sister, Sansa Stark, to the best of my abilities.”

 

“Liar!” Someone yelled, as the men broke out in disgruntled chatter. Robb silenced them with a raise of his hand, still glaring at him.

 

“I’ve been told my little sister was injured and broken when she was rescued by--”

 

“It wasn’t a fucking rescue, it was an ambush.” Sandor cut him off furiously. “Had your stupid little sister been a bit more careless, she could’ve shot little-- _Sansa_ \-- and not me!”

 

“Arya is a good shot.” Robb looked suspicious now, while his men shifted about angrily behind him. “If you say you protected my sister, tell me how.”

 

“How do you want me to start?” Sandor pretended to be mulling over his answers. “Maybe when Joffrey threatened to rape her, and I made sure the cunt didn’t? Or when men tried to touch her, and I threatened their balls so they wouldn’t? Or when I kept her safe from his fucking wrath every time you did something she would’ve been punished for? Or the fact that I took her away whenever I could? Made sure no one came into her bed at night. Made sure she actually ate, and forced it down her throat when she wouldn’t. Tried to make her happy, made sure she didn’t try to jump off a goddamn cliff. You want proof that I kept her safe? That she trusted me? I’ll tell you something only you’d know.

 

“She wears a ring and a necklace. You and Jon got them for her, didn’t you? She wears them all the time, the little wolf howling at the moon and one on her finger. She spins it when she’s nervous or overthinking, which is all the fucking time, by the way. The first thing she did when Joffrey sent her off was hand them to me so that Joffrey wouldn’t take them. Because she fucking loves you two.” He ended his rant, panting with the pain from his shoulder and his anger.

 

“Why didn’t you take her away sooner?” Robb questioned him and at that, Sandor hung his head. He had no good answer here, so he chose the truth.

 

“Because I was a fucking idiot. I thought she was nothing. Been on my own, doing this life for a fucking long time, you hear me? She was just another meal ticket then. I kept her safe, I kept her alive, I got paid. It was as simple as that.” He muttered.

 

“And you thought I’d pay better than him.” Robb surmised, his eyes narrowing in disdain again. “Thought to ransom her.”

 

“First, yeah.” Sandor admitted. There was no use denying it. These men know what kind of man he was. “She even told me that you would. Said if I took her home, you’d pay me double what he was paying you. Nice bonus, enough for me to live cushy for awhile.”

 

“And still you didn’t do anything.” Robb glared.

 

“Didn’t believe her.” Sandor stated. “I knew about you, even before she came. Joffrey’ll sell women, drugs, guns, whatever he can get his hands on. They all will. Anything to give him more money. Sell his own damn mother, if he thought it would give him what he needed to beat you. It makes him rich. You? You’re honorable. No drugs, no women. No guns to the wrong people. Makes you poor.”

 

“Poor.” Robb laughed, even as his men looked thoughtful. “You think I’m poor?”

 

“Poorer than Joffrey.” Sandor said evenly. “And not willing to give me seven figures for your little sister, no matter how precious.”

 

“How dare you--” Robb’s smile slid off his face in the blink of an eye. “I would do anything for my family, anything at all--”

 

“Aye, and the uncle that Joffrey holds?” Sandor reminded him and Robb broke off, looking away. “You going to shell out to save him?”

 

“It was wrong of Joffrey to take someone who had no business in this.” He said tightly. “My mother is trying to free her brother, but…”

 

“But Joffrey is a fucking serial killer.” Sandor supplied helpfully. “I was military. Saw plenty of sadistic cunts during my time. But him? Takes the cake. Easily. He would’ve raped your sister bloody and made you watch, you know that? That was his plan for her.”

 

“I…” Robb trailed off, disgusted and horrified.

 

“I couldn’t just take her.” Sandor said flatly. “And what, get caught? Be hauled back? He would’ve killed me for defying him, and punished her for going. And not death punishment. Torture punishment. Stuff that would make her want to die. You think I would’ve risked that for her?”

 

“So what, you waited for your time?” Robb sneered.

 

“Aye.” Sandor shifted, trying to get blood to flow back into his toes. “Waited until you pissed him off, royally. He sent the whole goddamn club off to hunt you down, bring you back.”

 

“Worked well for him.” Robb smirked, to mummers of agreement and Sandor had a moment of idle contemplation which men didn’t come back to the clubhouse that night while Joffrey lay bleeding.

 

“Aye, and for us.” Sandor told him. “He meant to hurt Sansa then, so I beat him into a bloody pulp and took her and the money.”

 

“Why didn’t you take her north?” Jory demanded, by Robb’s side and Sandor looked at him as if he was a particularly dumb worm.

 

“What, and run into their backs? Get taken by police or other clubs? Lose her, again? What part of I was trying to keep her safe isn’t getting through your thick, northern skull?” He spat and Robb’s eyes narrowed once again. “We went east.”

 

“Where?” Robb folded his arms.

 

“Through Arizona. New Mexico. Took back roads, crossed back on ourselves. I tried to keep us unpredictable. Avoid all the clubs that were loyal to him. Stay out of sight, out of trouble.” He told them, thinking back on the chaotic first few days, where he was sure Joffrey was going to appear from the ditches and snatch Sansa away from him. He’d never been so scared.

 

“And how would you know how to evade police and men that know the terrien better than you?” One man questioned, glaring at him.

 

“Military teaches you a lot of things.” Sandor tried to drill holes in his head with his gaze. “Special forces teach you even more.”

 

“We know your background, Clegane.” Robb said impatiently. “We know what you can do. Where did you go next? You had Sansa for weeks.”

 

“It took weeks to get that far.” Sandor defended. “Couldn’t exactly take highways and interstates with all the fucking cops Joffrey had probably sent looking for us. He’s got clubs all the way to Texas; the whole south is almost his. I couldn’t be fucking parading her around and staying at the Hilton, now could I?”

 

“What else do you know about Joffrey’s plans?” Robb asked, and Sandor gave a dark chuckle. There it was. That was what was valuable. The King in the North could put on a grand show about defending his little sister, about caring for her, but at the end of the day, Sandor wasn’t brought here to make sure that he’d been a knight to the shining princess Sansa Stark. He was here because he was a loyal foot soldier who could tell them battle lines and strategies.

 

“Don’t you want to know what happened next?” He mocked and Robb tensed, but then after a moment, relaxed slightly.

 

“What?”

 

“Ambush. Your sweet sister decided she wanted clean clothes. I told her no, I thought we were still too close. She thought differently. I was right though, and they came to take her away. I killed four men to keep her safe, and I would’ve done it again. You think she's still your innocent little sister? Girl didn’t lose her head, not once. Kept calm. She’s the one that got us out of there, not me. I wasn’t smart enough, but she was.”

 

“Was she hurt?” Robb demanded and Sandor glared daggers at him.

 

“You think I would’ve let her be?”

 

“There where?” Robb changed the subject abruptly.

 

“Colorado. She loves the mountains, you know that? Finally started eating and sleeping there. Stopped thinking even her fucking shadow was out to get her. She would’ve sat on a ledge and drawn those shitty mountains for a week if I would’ve let her.”

 

“And you thought taking a leisurely tour through the Rockies was a better idea than bringing her home?” The grey whiskered man questioned him.

 

“If it kept her safe, it was the best fucking idea.” Sandor retorted. “In my book, as long as she wasn’t fucking dead, my plan was working.”

 

“Wyoming.” Robb ordered. “Tell me about Wyoming.”

 

“What is there that you don’t know?” Sandor’s gut clenched when he thought about it. “Found Jon. No bloody clue how. Tried to have a nice family reunion, which was firebombed by the fucking Frey’s. Sansa was clipped, got a nasty concussion, I--” He sucked in air, trying not to relive the nightmare that night had been. “I got her away. Don’t know about Jon.”

 

“He’s fine.” Robb said, in a manner that was almost comforting. “He and the other nomads killed the Frey’s you hadn’t. He said you took Sansa away, risked your life for her.”

 

“All I’ve been fucking doing.” Sandor muttered darkly. He desperately wanted to ask about her, ask if she was alright, if she was ok. But he didn’t dare. “Then I tried to get her home and Arya had to get trigger happy. Damn near shot Sansa.”

 

“And now you’re here.” Robb wrapped up for him and Sandor hung his head again. “So what is it you want then? Money? A reward? What were you hoping for?”

 

“Nothing.” Sandor wouldn’t speak the truth here. Not now. Not with all of them. “She’s safe, that’s payment enough. Let me go and I’ll be on my merry way. Never trouble you or her again. You wolves can go back to tearing apart lions.”

 

“He’ll go back to Joffrey.” Someone called, while another said loudly,

 

“It’s a trick!”

 

Soon the whole room was in an uproar about what to do with Sandor, whether he was to be let go or if he was to be killed. He sat amidst it all, uncaring. His thoughts were with Sansa and whatever she was doing. He hoped she was healing. A low growl and some shuffling made him look up, and the men immediately around him, Robb included, went silent.

 

There, in the corner, stalking out of the shadows like the beast he was, was a giant grey wolf-dog. He padded forward on light, soundless paws, coming directly for Sandor. His eyes were only a shade darker than his fur, and when he raised his hackles, long, wickedly sharp teeth gleamed. Robb didn’t say a word, just watched as his wolf padded towards Sandor, his blue eyes glinting. Only when the wolf was closed enough to sniff him did Sandor open his mouth and utter,

 

“Grey Wind.”

 

The wolf sniffed Sandor then sat down, peering at him. Robb was not the only one of his men who looked astonished. After a few seconds of stunned silence, Grey Wind laid down in front of Sandor and placed his head on his paws, as though awaiting affection from the bound man. Robb looked at his wolf, then at Sandor, then back at his wolf again several times.

 

“How’d you know his name?” Robb demanded.

 

“I know them all.” Sandor thought of Sansa’s drawings. “You and Grey Wind, Jon and his Ghost. Sansa with her little Lady, and Arya with proud Nymeria. Bran and Summer, and wild Rickon with Shaggydog. I know their faces; it’s how I knew yours. I know Winterfell and your father and a thousand other things Sansa has seen. She drew them all for me, and told me. It’s there, in the backpack.”

 

“Here.” Jory thrust the ragged thing at Robb. The journey had not be kind to it, so Robb has to gingerly pull things out of it. Eventually, he found the well-loved notebook that contained all of Sansa’s doodles and scribbles. He flipped through it, brow furrowing. Something clearly caught his attention, when he stopped on a certain page and stared at it for a long time, face stoney. Then he snapped it shut.

 

“Clean him up. Give him a hot shower, have someone make sure that wound doesn’t get infected.” He ordered and no one moved. “Take him to the clubhouse, let him sleep.”

 

“What?” Whiskers was the first to look at Robb in disbelief, and the rest weren’t far behind. “How do you know he’s not going to rip us apart in our sleep?”

 

“Clegane.” Robb turned to him, looking vaguely annoyed to be questioned. “”Do you swear that you won’t harm any of my men?”  

 

“So long as they don’t attack me first.” He declared.

 

“And you swear to cooperate and behave in exchange for a hot shower, full meal, and comfy bed?” Robb stated. Sandor felt a trickle of blood down his collarbone.

 

“Aye.”

 

“And you will swear, after you’ve been taken care of, to help me murder Joffrey Lannister and every Lion we find in revenge for my father and my sister?” Robb asked flintily. Sandor hesitated only for a beat.

 

“Aye.”

 

“Well then, there we go, Rodrick.” Robb gave a thin, humorless smile. “It seems we have a hound amongst our wolves. Grey Wind, to me.” The wolf padded away after him, and Sandor was left in a warehouse filled with uncertain men. Half followed Robb, and half hung back, staring at him. Finally, one brave soul gave a supremely cavalier shrug and stepped forward, wielding a knife. Sandor tensed. 

 

“If he kills us all, someone try to stay alive to tell Robb we told him so.” He joked, as he cut Sandor’s bonds. A second later his hands were free and he stood stiffly. Every man took a step back and Sandor didn’t look at them as he flinched, holding his shoulder.

 

“You cunts got alcohol or what?” He growled and was rewarded with a few wary chuckles and tight smiles. He rode to the clubhouse in the front of the van this time and learned the name of the prospect, Beren Tallhart. They were going to some clubhouse that’d allied with Robb and there he’d get cleaned up and stay. The exhaustion was settling in after the adrenaline of facing Robb, and he was nodding off before they even reached the clubhouse. He stumbled his way through a shower and some meatloaf, before going to crash in the bedroom. He only stopped when he saw the backpack sitting on the bed, and the notebook on top it.

 

He went to flip through the pages, wondering what it was that Robb had seen that had made him change his mind, sitting heavily on the bed. There, at the very end, was a drawing he hadn't seen. She must’ve done it towards the end of their journey, when he was distracted. It was vague, still in the early stages of her work, but it showed clearly enough, a small figure being guarded by two larger ones. It didn’t take him more than a moment to see the resemblance to himself and Robb.

 

He set the notebook aside, vowing to go through it after he’d slept. He passed out before his head could even hit the pillow.

 

However long he slept wasn’t long enough, and he was awoken by someone prodded something into his shoulder. He swung blindly in his pain and was reprimanded with a smart crack to the forehead. He opened bleary eyes and saw a pretty woman with high cheekbones and straight, black hair. She glared at him forcefully until he laid back down slowly.

 

“Who the fucking hell are you?” He asked roughly.

 

“Your nurse.” She did not sound pleased with the occupation. “Now hold still or you’ll pull another stitch. Who shot you?”

 

“Wolf bitch.” He muttered, sitting back and closing his eyes, trying to relax. After a second, the woman asked him slowly,

 

“Do you want something for the pain?”

 

“Had worse.” He grumbled and could feel her gaze on his face. Thankfully, she said nothing, but kept sewing him up. “How long have I been asleep?”

 

“Day. Day and a half. No one here really knows. They all thought you were dead, which is why they called me. I can assume you’re not deceased, but why the hell wasn’t this looked at sooner?”

 

“I was busy proving my loyalty to Robb Stark.” He informed her and she clicked her tongue angrily.

 

“Idiot man.”

 

“What do you have against him?” He asked her, cracking his eyelid open just enough to see her little smile before she slipped the needle through his skin again.

 

“He is a stubborn idiot. King of this and there. Foolish.” She muttered and Sandor gave a small chuckle, trying not to jostle her.

 

“So how long you been in love with him then?” There was a long pause of silence after his question, before she finished her stitches.

 

“He says you saved his little sister.” The woman sat back, looking at him imploringly. “He says you will join him, and be a good man.”

 

“Aye.” Sandor grumbled. He hated this sort of noble talk. It was a bunch of nonsense, the sort of thing that would’ve sent Sansa swooning.

 

“Then how long have you been in love with her?” She said simply and they were both silent, staring at each other. Then she broke it with a smile and offered her hand. “Talisa.”

 

“Sandor.” He shook it and she stood.

 

“It’s a good thing you’re awake - he wants to see you. I’ve got a change of clothes here - sorry for the fit - and a bike outside for you.” She pointed to the pile.

 

“And why am I getting summoned this time?” He asked her, groaning as he stood. His muscles had seemed to stiffen in protest of their recent treatment, so he had to hobble.

 

“I don’t know.” Talisa helped him gently.

 

“So you his old lady then, or just a quick fuck on his way south?” Sandor asked her and when she looked at them, her brown eyes flashed. He thought of Sansa, whose spark had been brighter.

 

“I am my own person. I’m no one’s old lady, and I don’t belong to a man. Robb was hurt. I tended to his wounds. Now I help everyone who gets hurt on his warpath.” She looked pointedly at his shoulder. “I keep busy enough.”

 

“Aye, I’m sure you do.” He pulled on his shirt and thought that Sansa might like this Talisa, if she ever got a chance to meet her.

 

“You’ll eat before you go.” She commanded, when he tried to make for the door. He turned to look at her, flabbergasted, but she folded her arms and quirked an eyebrow high, a surefire sign she was not joking in the slightest.

 

“You make me breakfast then?” He demanded sarcastically.

 

“Hope you like eggs and toast.” She pushed past him and he followed her despite himself, as his stomach made growls of want.

 

She had indeed cooked breakfast, as had the other woman there. Men drifted in and out, some as though they’d just woken up, others like they were ending a long, hard day. Sandor watched them all, even if most of them didn’t notice the hulking figure at the bar. Once he finished, he finished a glass of milk and looked for Talisa. She appeared, a smug smile on her face.

 

“May I be dismissed mother?” He requested, heavy on his sarcasm and she took his plate and glass away, unrattled in the least.

 

“You may.” She told him, before whistling sharply. “You! Little Jon, take him to Robb. And easy on the shoulder. If I have to do those stitches again, someone’s getting it.”

 

“Yes ma’am.” The man that came to get him was not little by any standards, but he had an easy smile and didn’t seem frightened of Sandor in the least. “We gotta listen to her, you know? Don’t want to piss off the future queen, right?”

 

“Is that what she’ll be?” Sandor glanced over his shoulder at her.

 

“Yeah,” Little Jon said casually. “Robb’s pretty fucked. She’ll make a good old lady.”

 

“Don’t tell her that.” Sandor snorted, as Little Jon led him to a plain, basic bike. “What the fuck is this piece of shit? Where’s my bike?”

 

“Back in NorCal.” Little Jon smiled as he got on his bike. “This is your loaner. You can thank Robb; we were all gonna make you ride in the cage.”

 

“Fuck.” Sandor looked at the bike then back at the van before sighing and getting on. It was better than the damned cage again. Little Jon took him to another warehouse, this one much nicer. It was there that Robb had set up his true headquarters. Maps and papers covered the tables and walls, while Robb himself sat at the head of it, contemplating things.

 

For a second, he took in Sansa’s older brother. His hair was shades darker than hers but they matched with the fair skin. A beard covered most of Robb’s cheeks and jaw, while a cigarette dangled from his lips. He had Sansa’s height and lankiness, and the same long, thin fingers. On them sat heavy rings, including one that looked like a bulkier copy of Sansa’s. His kutte was well worn, as were his jeans and his boots dirty. Tattoos littered his hands and what bit of forearm Sandor could see.

 

“Clegane.” Robb didn’t look up when he arrived. “Welcome. Hey, Little Jon. Can I talk to him alone for a minute? Thanks brother.”

 

“What the fuck?” Sandor asked before he could help himself. “Having your old lady stitch me up while I’m sleeping, what kind of shit is that?”

 

“You woke up to a beautiful woman and you’re not going to bleed out. Thank me later.” Robb said, looking over the maps with a furrowed brow. “I need a favor from you.”

 

“What, tell you all of Joffrey’s little plans?” Sandor snorted. “He’s got men here and here, and he thinks you’ll go here--” He pointed at the map.

 

“Helpful.” Robb pursed his lips. “But ultimately not what it’s about. It’s my sister.”

 

“Sansa?” He asked sharply. “What’s wrong? Is she ok? Is she hurt? What did they do? Did Joffrey get her? What happened?”

 

“Not Sansa.” Robb’s mouth quirked upwards. “Arya.”

 

“What, she shoot someone else?” He snorted.

 

“Not quite.” Robb moved aside the papers to show another map, detailing all of California. “Worse. She’s ran off to the south.”

 

“Fucking Stark girls and the south.” Sandor muttered. “Why the hell did she do that?”

 

“Revenge.” Robb said, as though it should’ve been obvious. “Sansa thinks she can fix things with her words and Arya with her guns. You got Sansa out. I need you to go get Arya.”

 

“Am I a goddamn babysitter?” Sandor demanded and Robb looked up at him with cutting blue eyes in a manner so reminiscent of Sansa it stopped him in his tracks.

 

“If I send my men to get her, they’ll know she’s gone. Word will get to Joffrey. She’ll be taken. Go get her before she manages to actually shoot the wrong person.” Robb ordered and Sandor bristled.

 

“Listen, King in the North, I’m not one of your fucking men to--”

 

“Sansa’s on the phone.” Robb held out a flip phone and Sandor snatched it from him, uncaring what the hell Robb thought.

 

“Little bird?”

 

“Hi!” Sansa sounded like she was laughing and crying all at once. “Hi! Are you ok? Are you hurt? Did Arya shoot you? Are you with Robb? Is he ok?”

 

“Fine, fine, fine.” He said impatiently. “How’s your head? Are you home? Are you eating? Drink more water, you never drink fucking enough, it’s--”

 

“Sandor.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Sandor, listen. I know this is so much to ask of you, especially after everything you just did for me, but I need you to get Arya. You’re the only who know where she’s going to go and how to get her out. I just… Please, for me. I know you two don’t get along but—“

 

“Don’t get along? Don’t get along? You make it sound like we bickered over who got the last scoop of ice cream. She shot me!” He protested.

 

“And I’m sure she’ll say sorry, so please try to get over it, and find her for me?” Sansa’s voice trembled. “I don’t want anything to happen to her, and…”

 

“Alright.” He said flatly and looked down at the map. “Alright, fine, I’ll bring the little wolf bitch home. But if she shoots me again--”

 

“‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Sansa said eagerly. “Sandor, I can’t even begin to thank you. I… You can’t even know. Please get home safe to me, alright?”  

 

“Alright.” He softened slightly. “Are you fine? Are you lying to me? I’ll fucking know, you know I can smell a lie on you, little bird.”

 

“I’m ok.” Sansa promised. “I’m trying to get better. I’ll be back to 100 percent by the time you get Arya home, ok? Pinky swear.”

 

“Alright.” He took a deep breath, trying not to groan. “Back on the road then.”

 

“Please be safe.” Sansa pleaded. “Sandor, I.... We’ll talk when you get home.”

 

“Alright.” He hung up and looked at Robb, who hadn’t said a word but seemed to be deep in thought. “What do you want me to fucking do then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i said, rough week (though it was not the baby who killed me slowly, but the bratty 12 year old only child, who knew?) so plz leave reviews cause those make me smile, and if you have nothing to say, then just tell me who your favorite person is on this earth
> 
> i will go first
> 
> my two month old nephew, for being chill and just napping with me


	20. Help Me Mama, ZZ Ward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter is dedicated to my little brother, who would so get along with Rickon and inspires me to be a little more wild every day 
> 
> and also to those who struggle with their moms - it's rough, it's hard, but we are not who created us <3
> 
> please enjoy and know that i am very grateful to each and every one of you friends

Sansa couldn’t stop pacing. Brienne said that mood swings were normal in people with head injuries and Sansa simply had to be patient and give it time before she could fully heal, but right now she felt overwhelming anger that wouldn’t seem to abate no matter what she did. It was leaching into Rickon, she could tell, but she couldn’t sit still any longer.

 

“When’s she getting here?” She snapped at Brienne, who gave her a stern look that Sansa didn’t heed. She spun on her heel and resumed striding across the living room.

 

“She said she’d be here this afternoon.” Brienne said quietly, as Rickon sat in the window and looked out at the long road that led to Winterfell. Shaggydog laid prone at his feet, watching Rickon. Bran sat on the couch with a book, Summer’s head in his lap, pretending to read quietly.

 

“And it’s late afternoon.” Sansa spun on the smooth hardwood. Years of stocking feet had worn it smooth until it was almost slippery. Running through the living room had been forbidden since Sansa was little, when a winter, indoor game of tag had caused a very Arya shaped hole in the wall.

 

She stared at the offending wall. It had long been patched over, repainted, and had a decorative desk placed in front of it. But Sansa remembered. That’s what Winterfell was for her - memories on memories, piled in rooms and on the walls. Everywhere she looked was another memory, another bit of the past that jumped out at her, trying to drag her back.

 

Above the fireplace hung the last picture they’d ever taken together. Sansa wished it was nicer and the memories to go with it as well. It had been hot. Jon wasn’t smiling, instead appearing sullen. Sansa was standing just a bit too in front of her little sister, because they’d been feuding. Catelyn was holding Rickon, but her smile was half-hearted and her eyes tired, trying to hold everyone together.

 

Sansa avoided looking at her father in the picture. That made her saddest of all. His hands rested on Robb and Bran’s shoulders, his face grim and stern, while grey eyes pierced the camera. He was distracted by something Sansa didn’t know. She’d never asked. He wasn’t wearing his kutte, but on his middle finger sat the wolf emblem ring, one that Jon Snow wore now.

 

“It takes awhile to drive here, Sansa, and she’ll take care to be safe.” Brienne said carefully and Sansa gave her a look to drive a dagger made of ice into her.

 

“I know how long it takes to navigate Robb’s stupid war.” She said harshly. “Mom’s coming through land that Robb holds. It should be a breeze.”

 

“Sansa, it’s not always easy to--” Brienne began, but then Rickon gave a sharp wolf’s whistle and both women turned to the massive bay window. Rickon silently pointed to the black car easing up the driveway through the mud. Sansa stepped forward and even Bran put down his book, threading his fingers into Summer’s fur. Sansa would’ve done the same with Lady, except her hands were shaking with anger.

 

The car stopped in the driveway, and after a minute, a prospect got out and walked around to the passenger’s side. He opened the door and out climbed Catelyn Stark, the former Queen of the Wolves, and Sansa’s mother. For a second, she forgot how to breathe as her mother walked up to the door, taking even and measured steps, avoiding the muck.

 

Her tall black boots were tight on her calves, and she wore dark jeans. A thick black sweater protected her from the rain, yet did little to cloak how thin she had really become. The only spot of color on her was her still red hair, a shade or so lighter than Sansa’s own. She wore her wedding band on her hand, and her eyes were dark with grief still.

 

She looked older and stressed, Sansa thought as the door opened and they were suddenly brought face to face. Sansa gawked at her mother, unable to help herself. Catelyn had lost the bright spark that had so defined her and without it, Sansa wasn’t sure she was even looking at the same person. Blue eyes found the set that matched her own, and for a long second, mother and daughter only stared at each other. Then, it was broken by Nymeria eagerly bounding out the door, as if looking for anyone else that might’ve came.

 

“She misses Arya.” Sansa’s voice sounded strange in her ears. Rickon whispered something only Shaggydog could hear and he shot off, a black streak, following his sister. Rickon looked up at them wordlessly. “Can’t figure out why she didn’t go with.”

 

“Ghost howled for Jon for ages.” Bran said quietly and Catelyn’s eyes fell on him. “Took him weeks to stop waiting for him.”

 

“He should’ve taken him.” Catelyn’s voice sounded strange, as though it was half gone. “Robb had Grey Wind, and you all yours. You kids shouldn’t be without them.”

 

“You never wanted us to have them in the first place.” Sansa said suddenly, looking at her mother. “You hated them. Didn’t want them.”

 

“Sansa!” Her mother looked at her with betrayal. “I just got you back. Please, do not fight with me over this. I just…” Her eyes welled with tears. “I’ve missed you so much and I’ve been so worried and…”

 

“If you were so worried, cared so much, why didn’t you come home before?” Sansa asked flintily. “I’ve been home for almost a week mom, and you could have came home at any time.”

 

“Sansa, I was with Robb.” Catelyn said, as though that solved everything. “Your brother is fighting a war, I had to be with him.”

 

“This isn’t a war!” Sansa cried. “This is bullshit! It’s Joffrey being a fucking prick and Robb stooping to his level to get stupid revenge!”

 

“They killed your father.” Catelyn was working very hard not to look at the portrait above the fire. “Robb is just doing what--”

 

“What the club wants.” Sansa finished for her. “What he has to do so that all the old men can pat him on the back and talk about how strong and fierce he is. How he’s just like dad. He’s going to make the same mistakes as dad! You let Jon go riding off to god knows where, you didn’t seem to give a damn that I was being held hostage, you let Arya turn into an assassin who thinks she can do what no one else has managed, you left Bran here by himself, and you’ve let Rickon run with the wolves! Actually, encouraging Robb to play king might be the best of your parenting choices you’ve been making lately.”

 

“Sansa.” Her mother looked stunned by her rage, and even her brothers seemed taken aback. Brienne watched with quiet eyes.

 

“You didn’t even care.” Sansa whispered, avoiding her eyes. “You just left me there. Everyone left me. No one cared about me.”

 

“Don’t say that.” Catelyn sounded anguished. “Sansa, the only reason why Robb has gone as far as he has was to get you back. He just wanted to keep Joffrey away, keep the lions away, make sure they knew that the north was strong. But once Joffrey had you, Robb was going to do whatever it took to get you back, sweetheart.” She said eagerly and Sansa spun away from her.

 

“Robb just wants to prove himself.” Sansa said bitterly. “He thinks that if he does this it’s going to make all the pain go away, just like Jon thinks that if he gets far enough away and Arya if she kills everyone. Just like you think that if you keep avoiding this place, you’ll forget that dad’s never coming back!”

 

“Sansa.” Her mother whispered, and this time she did burst into tears. Sansa stared at her, willing herself to feel pity for the sad, frail woman in front of her, but she couldn’t. Sansa nearly jumped when she felt a rough hand slip into her own and she turned, looking at Rickon, wondering when he’d gotten nearly tall enough for her to look him in the eye. Then, he pulled gently and Sansa followed him out the door.

 

Though the ground was wet and muddy, and the air chilled as they slipped further into fall, Rickon was barefoot. He allowed Sansa to get rainboots before leading her to the edge of the forest. That’s where Ghost, Lady, Nymeria, and Shaggy waited for them, like they understood. Sansa paused, only for a moment, to glance at Rickon. He nodded, then slipped between the trees.

 

He moved like a spirit between them, as fluid as a breeze. Sansa felt loud and clumbering in comparison to him, snapping twigs beneath her feet and generally disrupting the earth with every step and movement. The wolves left them, darting between the trees. Sansa wanted to yell for Lady to come back, but she had Rickon and she trusted him.

 

Deeper they went, until Sansa was sure her brother was lost. She wanted to ask him, but he’d hardly said a word, so she remained quiet as well, hiking through the trees, neck prickling at every sound. Once, she’d nearly shouted when they’d turned a corner and Ghost stood in the path, silent and all-seeing. Rickon hadn’t been bothered in the slightest; he’d ran his hands along Ghost’s back as they passed, and didn’t watch him disappear like an apparition in the trees, as silently as he’d came.  

 

“Rickon.” Sansa said finally, when she began to shiver. “Where are we… Going?”

 

“Home.” Rickon said simply and Sansa glanced over her shoulder, back at where she thought Winterfell might’ve been.

 

“Rickon, home is…” She trailed off when she came around a corner and stopped in her tracks. There in the woods was a little shed. To call it a shack would’ve been an insult; it was more like a tiny cabin that had been plunked down inside the woods. Lady lay at the door, lifting her head when Sansa approached. Slowly, like she was in a dream, she moved forward.

 

There was a fire pit to one side, with a grill over the top of it. There was various utensils around it, and a drying line strung beneath the trees. Everywhere she looked, Sansa saw more evidence of Rickon’s permanent residency here; fishing lines, hammock, stools, tools, and more. She tried to get a good look at all of it, but Rickon was pulling her inside.

 

That was even more surprising. A small table took up most of it, with one chair and a threadbare rug on the floor. There was a small bunk built into a wall, a few shelves, and various items scattered around. Rickon pulled out a bag of beef jerky, offering her some. Sansa took it, dazed. Rickon got her a blanket from the bed and tossed it over her shoulders, going to start a little fire.

 

“Ok?” He asked, as Lady begged for the jerky.

 

“Yeah.” Sansa startled back into consciousness. “Yeah, thank you, I just… Rickon, did you make all of this? By yourself?”

 

“Osha helped.” He said simply and Sansa nodded, unsure of what else she had to say. She fed Lady some jerky while Rickon tended the fire, wondering what the hell was going on. She was sitting in bed while Rickon milled about, doing random things, when the door opened.

 

“Rickon, you’re not suppose to here, your mother is…” Osha trailed off when she spotted Sansa sitting crossed legged on the bed. “Sansa?”

 

“Hi Osha.” She said quietly. Rickon’s teacher was part survivalist, and she hailed from the Shasta tribe that had once called the area home. Her hair hung straight down her back and she wore functional clothes. Her dark eyes were wrinkled slightly in confusion, looking between Sansa and Rickon several times before folding her arms and leaning against the doorway.

 

“So?” She looked at Rickon, who seemed to communicate strictly through a couple raised shoulder shrugs and one grimace. “That bad?” She looked at Sansa.

 

“Kinda.” Sansa said quietly. “I… Yelled.”

 

“And you?” Osha looked back to Rickon, who seemed to puff up. “Alright, alright, got it.” Sansa blinked, bewildered. What had Rickon even said for Osha to get? “Are you good?” She demanded and it took a second for Sansa to realize she was talking to her.

 

“What? Oh, yeah, I think so.” Sansa looked at Rickon, who was making tea. She tried to hide her shock. “Yeah, if he is, I am.”

 

“Alright.” Osha gave Ghost’s neck a good ruffle. “My house is just due north. Rickon knows the way. I check on him every now and then, but since you’re here, I’ll be off. Stick with him, he knows what he’s doing. Don’t wander off; these woods make it easy to get turned around.” She warned.

 

“Ok.” Sansa agreed, wondering when the hell her siblings had turned into the competent ones and she the baby needing watching.

 

“You know the rules.” Osha reminded Rickon, who gave a curt nod. “You watch out for her, ok? Alright. I’m home. Send Ghost if you need me.” Rickon nodded again and with a small smile, Osha was gone. Sansa took the tea Rickon offered, then asked him slowly,

 

“Rickon, how often are you out here?”

 

“Lots.” He said quietly. He’d always liked the woods, even when they were younger. They’d had to reach out to Osha just to make sure that Rickon didn’t burn the woods down or lose himself in them. When Sansa had gone off to college, the extent of Rickon’s education was limited to basic survival skills, like fires and directions. He still spent most of the day in the classroom with Osha, learning to read and write and count. Now it seemed like the reverse had occurred.

 

“Did you… Build this?” She asked him carefully and he nodded, a proud little smile on his face. He ran a loving hand over the wood and then patted the table. “All of this?” Sansa gestured to the whole shed, with it’s furniture and various items.

 

“Osha’s.” He pointed to the rug and the blankets and pillows and Sansa had to smile at that. Of course Rickon didn’t knit or sew.

 

“I should knit you a blanket or something.” She said, pulling one over her lap. “Would that be good? Do you sleep here a lot?”

 

“Yeah.” He said quietly, picking up a knife and a piece of wood, going to whittle it.

 

“Ok, a blanket it is.” Sansa said, then was quiet, watching him. After a bit, he handed her her own knife and bit of wood and she was left to try to make something of it, grunting in frustration. Rickon gave her bits of advice, but was mostly quiet. She was trying to make a wolf, but it ended up looking more like a crude pig so she gave a laugh and a helpless shrug.

 

She hunted for sticks in the woods for kindling, listening to Rickon’s quiet instructions. He seemed to know when the dry things would be. He gathered bigger pieces, and leaves. He was almost as quiet as the wolves and occasionally Sansa would lose sight of him, only to look up and find him in the branches above her, shimmying along to reach something. She could only stare at him, astonished, and remember the little boy he had once been, but was no longer.

 

They ate nuts and berries Rickon had gathered. He cooked a rabbit over the fire but Sansa declined, eating a bit more jerky. Rickon didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by the blood. Osha appeared then, with an approving nod for Rickon and a sandwich for a grateful Sansa. She didn’t seem to question in the slightest why the siblings were in the woods rather than in the sprawling ranch with it’s food and heat.

 

When darkness set, Rickon carefully put on the fire, then went back into the shed. No lights, just a small fire to keep it warm. He climbed in the narrow bed and Sansa followed. The wolves slept between them, on their feet, beside the bed, near the fire, wherever it pleased them. Sansa fell asleep to the rythmic sound of Rickon’s breathing and the wolves.

 

The next morning, Rickon gave Sansa a sad little smile. She knew what it meant, so she sighed and nodded, straightening up the shed. Even the wolves seemed to know that there was to be no more hiding. It was time to go back. She pulled on her rain boots and stepped out into the chilly morning air. She felt more relaxed than she had since well before she’d been taken.

 

“Thanks.” Rickon said suddenly, as they walked along a path that bordered a small creek. Sansa looked at him in surprise.

 

“No, Rickon, thank you. It means everything to me that you showed me that place. I know how special it is to you.” She said carefully. “You didn’t have to bring me there but I’m really, really glad that you did. I get it now, why you… Go.”

 

“It’s quiet.” Rickon said, by way of explanation, and then leapt across the creek. Sansa sloshed through the water and watched with a little smile as Rickon raced ahead, Ghost and Shaggy bounding alongside him. Lady and Nymeria stayed with Sansa, as they meandered through the still dark woods.

 

When they reached the edge, Winterfell stood before them. Sansa took a deep breath, sighing and trying to pull herself back together. She looked a mess, smelled like campfire smoke, and was covered in dog hair. But none of that seemed to matter to the fact for for once, she felt peaceful. Ready to face the world. Wryly thinking that Rickon had had the right of it all along, Sansa walked up to the house while Rickon melted back into one of the many sheds and garages that lined the property.

 

“Sansa!” Brienne seemed startled when Sansa appeared, muddy and chilled, in the front entry. Sansa ignored her, pulling the rain boots off.

 

“I told you Rickon wouldn’t let anything happen to her.” Bran remarked, not looking up from his computer. Sansa rolled her eyes but didn’t object.

 

“Do you know what he’s doing out in the woods?” Sansa asked him and Bran glanced up at her, seemingly unsurprised by her appearance.

 

“Of course. What did you think he was doing there?”

 

“Blowing things up, mostly.” Sansa went for the kitchen. Rickon may have been able to eat cooked rabbit but Sansa wanted soup. Warm soup, with no wild animals in it. “I didn’t know he could do anything like that. What else did you guys learn while I was gone?”

 

“What is Rickon doing?” Brienne questioned, trailing Sansa, who made soup and didn’t even glance at her, instead looking at Bran.

 

“Well, my IQ is only a couple points off of being a genius.” Bran told her and Sansa rolled her eyes, getting a mug for tea.

 

“Yeah, but I knew that. What are you doing with it?”

 

“Studying history to predict future events using a combination of mathematics, probability, chance, and human factors.” Bran stated and Sansa pointed to him.

 

“That’s more like it. Robb runs the whole club, Jon explores the country, Arya can murder someone in cold blood, you’re going to save us all from ruin, and Rickon will either end or save the world.” She poured hot water into the mug before adding a tea bag to it. “And what’s my superpower then?”

 

“Maybe that you convinced a hitman for hire to kidnap you, take you to safety, and not demand a cent of payment for it.” Catelyn’s voice came into the room and Sansa turned to her mother slowly, the dinging of the microwave with the soup going unheeded by them.

 

“Did you meet Sandor?” She asked her slowly. Catelyn looked only marginally better, wrapped in a large black cardigan and barefooted.

 

“I did not have the pleasure, no.” Catelyn said tightly. “However, your brother did provide me with information on him, including the fact that you sent him after your sister.”

 

“He’s the only one who might--” Sansa began but Catelyn cut her off.

 

“”I know that you’ve been through a rough time Sansa however I do not think that justifies the sending of a murderer after Arya! You don’t even know the man, you don’t even--”

 

“I don’t know him?” Sansa demanded incredulously. “Are you kidding me? I spent months with him mom, with him being the only person I could trust or talk to. He saved my life only like half a billion times, and tried to get me home safe. I think I know him better than I know just about anyone!”

 

“And you think that he’s going to get Arya? Not ransom her off to lions?” Catelyn was holding tight to her arms like if she let go, she might fall apart.

 

“Yes.” Sansa said firmly. “He’s good mom, he’s a good man. And he’s not a fucking murderer, so don’t call him that, ok?”

 

“Has he killed people?” Catelyn pressed and a memory flashed into Sansa’s mind; a washer covered in blood and Sandor’s face looking at her with heartbreak.

 

“Yes.” She whispered and Catelyn opened her mouth to deliver another blow before Sansa raised her gaze to look directly at her mother. “And so has Robb, hasn’t he?”

 

“That’s different.” Catelyn’s mouth had a muleish set to it. “Robb does what he needs to do, for the good of the club, with honor and--”

 

“Did dad kill people?” Sansa asked her and Catelyn’s eyes grew bright with pain and unshed tears. When she spoke, her voice trembled.

 

“You do not talk about your father in that manner young lady, not to me.”

 

“Dad was a killer, my brothers are killers, Sandor is a killer, it doesn’t matter.” Sansa thought of him, his rough hands pressing a gun into her own. “I’ll probably be a killer someday.”

 

“Sansa!” Her mother cried. “Don’t say such things!”

 

“It’s the truth though, isn’t it?” She wondered where the gun was. She wanted it back; she wanted a part of him to be close to her. “With the life that we lead, at some point or another, we either leave or adapt to it. I’ll either stay and become one of you all, or I’ll leave and keep pretending that I don’t come from here, that my family isn’t filled with murderers and killers.”

 

“Like the murderer and killer you’ve sent after Arya?” Her mother snapped, returning them to the original conversation.

 

“Sandor is her best chance of getting out alive.” Sansa said flatly. “He is the one who got me out, and he knows how to do it again.”

 

“Tell me why you trust him so much.” Catelyn questioned her and Sansa tried to draw up the memories, ones that were still hazy or pained, still unreachable, still unsure. But there was one that was clearly, and she clutched her mug as she told it.

 

“Joffrey use to make me drink. Whenever Robb did something or he was in a mood, Joffrey would throw a party and make me… Serve him. I had to bring him drinks and stuff, and then half the time, he’d force me to drink them. I wasn’t really eating, and one night it got bad. Sandor found me throwing up. He was the one who cleaned me up, took me to my rooms, made sure no one tried to hurt me. He didn’t do it because he had to. He just did it because he needed to. Because I needed him.” Sansa looked down at her tea. “It took him awhile to remember it, but he is a good man.”

 

“Because he stopped you from choking on your own vomit?” Catelyn said icily. “I would’ve thought your father would’ve raised you with higher standards, Sansa.”

 

“Would he have?” Sansa’s angry was rising, all her peace from the woods having long since fled her. “Really, my father, the outlaw and crime boss, raising me to look for, what, a banker? A lawyer? Let me know if I can bring a doctor home for Christmas this year, mom. Like he’s not going to run when he sees Arya throw a dagger at his face. Or see Rickon shoot a crossbow and kill a deer. See Robb treated like some sort of king, running guns and god knows whatever else around. Face it mom, Sandor fits better than any other guy in this house and it terrifies you!” She yelled shrilly.

 

“Are you dating him?” Brienne asked, sounded genuinely shocked and Sansa had no good answer. She wasn’t dating him in the strictest of senses, but she couldn’t tell her family that she wanted to be dating him. That she wanted to love him.

 

“No.” She answered finally and Catelyn was staring up at the ceiling, seemingly to keep tears from slipping down her face.

 

“I don’t know what happened to you.” She said, still not looking down. “First college, now this… I don’t even know who you are anymore, Sansa.”

 

“I am your daughter.” Sansa said, hurt. “I’m still your child! Or did you forget that you have six of them, since only one matters?”

 

“Don’t!” Catelyn glared at her. “Robb needs me--”

 

“I needed you!” Sansa yelled, and wasn’t aware she was crying until she felt the hot tears slipping down her cheeks. “I needed my mom and you couldn’t be bothered to show up until Arya was off running away! Then you cared! God, what, am I not good enough?”

 

Her mother’s arms were around her before Sansa could even protest and push her away. She cried into her shoulder and Catelyn hushed her, stroking her hair and singing gently in her ear like she had when Sansa was a little girl. Sansa cried out all her tears, until she was left empty, shaking and trying to pull herself back together. Catelyn carefully pulled back so she could see her face.

 

“Sansa.” She said quietly. “You are my third child. You were my first girl. Every time I see you, I see myself in my prime. You are more beautiful, more thoughtful, more insightful than I ever was. You are smarter and kinder and brighter than I could ever dream to be. You are stronger than I ever was. And I am so sorry that my fears got in the way of my duty to you as your mother. You’re right. I should’ve came straight home when I heard you were safe. But you must know, my sweetest daughter, that I will love you more than anything. More than absolutely anything in this world or the next.”

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Sansa admitted in a whispered. “I don’t know what to do mom, I have no idea what to do.”

 

“You’re going to stay here and be safe.” Catelyn said briskly, letting Sansa go and walking to the microwave and adding a minute to it. “Eat your soup. I could use help around the house. We don’t have to do or plan anything Sansa. We can just work it out.”

 

“Alright.” Sansa agreed and took the warm bowl of soup out of the microwave when it chimed this time, sitting down beside a rather stunned Brienne.

 

Doing the housework helped, to Sansa’s surprise. She did loads of laundry, neatly folding up Arya’s things and placing them in a basket to set outside her locked door. She tried to remember the last time she’d been inside her little sister’s room. She swept the floors, dusted the upper level of the house, and washed the dishes. She cleaned windows and made chili to be frozen and then thawed out on cold winter days.

 

All the while her mother worked alongside her in silence, occasionally muttering something quietly or asking for help. Sansa fell into a rhythm and her mind went quiet. It seemed to make the day go faster, when she was busy trying to make Rickon’s handprints on the sliding glass door disappear. She worked through the kitchen then stopped and stood before her room.

 

“Do you want help?” Her mother asked quietly.

 

“No.” Sansa decided. “I think I need to do this one alone. Thank you, though.”

 

“Alright.” Her mother kissed her temple. “I’m going to go see if I can find anymore dust bunnies in Bran’s library. Shout if you need me.”

 

“Ok.” Sansa said. “Wait, mom?” She turned and Sansa took in the face, so alike her own, just aged and lined, infinitely sadder.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I love you too.”   

 

“I know sweetie.” Her eyes crinkled up and then Sansa went into her room and looked around at it in a mixture of sadness and exasperation.

 

Her purging was meticulous. Gone were her trophies from middle and high school, and even several from college. She set her diplomas aside. Then she combed through the files and the papers she’d kept, tossing them in piles to keep or throw. She went through her drawers filled with clothes, tossing out items that seemed so stupid suddenly. She went through her nicknacks and photos, keeping some and setting most aside. She pulled things off the walls and out from under her bed.

 

Her room became a tornado of things from her old life and Sansa waded through them, trying to put together the pieces of who she was and who she was going to be now. She felt like she was torn in two, partly the bratty girl who’d fought with her family about college, and partly the broken girl who cried to think that she would never fight with some of them again.

 

All she knew was that at the end of it, she wanted Sandor.

 

She went to sleep bone tired but woke up feeling clean. She filled the garbage bags with things to be tossed or donated and hauled them into the hallway. Brienne was the only one up, sipping coffee and watching her with the quiet blue eyes. Sansa gave her a little smile and after tossing things into the garage to be taken to the dump, poured herself her own cup of coffee.

 

“Feeling better?” Brienne asked her and Sansa poured creamer in.

 

“Actually, yes.” She admitted. “I really, really do.”

 

“Good.” Brienne smiled and rested her hand on top of Sansa’s softly. “You had me worried there for a moment, I won’t lie to you.”

 

“I know.” Sansa said quietly. “Sorry.”

 

“Just glad you’re ok.” She patted her hand and then sipped her coffee. “Now will you tell me what Rickon is actually doing in the woods?”

 

“Oh.” Sansa managed a small smile. “Yeah, he’s building things. He’s got this little shed that he made all himself, and it’s got furniture and everything. Table, chair, bed, all of it. He lives there; that’s why he’s always off running around out there. He can catch and cook his own food. You should see him in there Brienne. It’s kind of supernatural. He’s like a little tree nymph.”

 

“Glad to know he’s not actually trying to burn the thing down.” Brienne seemed a little pleased. “Glad it’s something productive.”

 

“Right?” Sansa mused. “Oh, Rickon…”

 

“What about your brother?” Catelyn arrived, still clad in her robe, hair long down her back. She grabbed a mug of her own and sat down at the table with them.

 

“He’s off in the woods building things and living off the land.” Sansa told her and Catelyn smiled sadly, stirring sugar into her coffee.

 

“Yes, well, that was your father’s idea.” She said quietly. “He said that Rickon had skills that none of us would ever have, so it was best to let him hone them. They built that table together. Ned carried it to the shed alone. I thought he’d throw his back out.” Catelyn gave a watery chuckle and Sansa rubbed her mother’s hand, wondering what it was like to lose the man you loved.

 

“Rickon does good, mom.” Sansa said softly. “He’s a good kid.”

 

“I know.” Catelyn wiped away a single tear. “All you kids are. I just wish everyone would come home for a minute, so that I could know you are all safe.”

 

“We’re trying.” Sansa crossed her fingers that Sandor had found Arya and that she wasn’t putting up too much of a fight about being brought home. “One day, we all will be home mom, I promise it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i said, this is alternating POV so we have our girl sansa (yes next week you'll get the arya and sandor show) but idk it felt important to me to show sansa's healing and stuff
> 
> i just love sansa stark ok
> 
> and i love reviews too so leave me those on the way out y'all are my favs


	21. Blank You Out, Seafret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's here it's here it's here
> 
> what you've all been waiting for
> 
> the arya and sandor show!

Sandor decided if he ever made it back to Sansa, he was going to ask for a kiss as payment for this mess. He was almost beyond caring if she wanted to give it or not. It seemed like a fair trade for the torture he was currently being put through. And there was no mistaking it; this was, in fact, torture. He hated every minute of it, though he pointedly didn’t reflect on why.

 

He sat on his bike, chain smoking. From all the maps he’d looked at, all the outcomes he’d considered, all the variables he’d accounted for, this was the most likely path that Arya would take to get down south. He had to hand it to her, she was smart. It was exactly what he would’ve done in her shoes. He had an almost smile, thinking of the fact that Arya might be an actual challenge for once.

 

He watched the road with curiosity, musing on if she would be smart enough to ditch the bike, or if her pride wouldn’t allow it. He bet on pride. Robb had told him all about Arya’s bike. She called it Needle and had picked it out with Jon’s help. If she was anything like her sister, he was willing to bet that she wouldn’t switch the bike, no matter how smart it was. She needed it. It connected her to home.

 

Part of him wished he had something like that. The only thing that connected him to home was the scar that destroyed his face. He didn’t want to be connected to his brother. If he could scrub himself free of it, of Gregor, he would. But it stayed, and would always stay, a reminder of his inability to stop him, for the rest of his life. It was no warm momento.

 

Except he had something else now, something that connected him to a different home. He carried it on him at all times, kept it nearby and safe. Sansa’s notebook felt like it was the only thing keeping him from going crazy, on the nights he’d had to journey south. He had nearly memorized the content of each page, devouring them with greedy eyes. It was a little bit of her that he kept with him always, and he understood then why she clung so tightly to her necklace and ring.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by the roar of a bike and he looked up. A tiny figure, dwarfed by the bike yet completely in control of it. All black, streaking past. With a slightly savage grin, Sandor tossed down his sandwich and got on his own rented bike, a little disappointed. He had such high hopes that she would’ve been more difficult. But then his shoulder twinged and he wondered if more difficult was really what he wanted anyways. Besides, the faster he got to Arya, the faster he got back to Sansa.

 

Following her was easy. The roadway was busy, and familiar to him after all his time with Joffrey. He stuck at a safe distance, never losing her. He moved through the traffic with ease, as they headed towards the south and towards Joffrey. He idly tried to think about her plan to actually get to Joffrey and how she would kill him. It seemed strange to think that someone who shared any relation to Sansa could be a cold blooded killer, but he was beginning to think his little bird was the exception to the rule.

 

He was impressed with Arya’s stamina. She hardly stopped or hesitated, flying down the highway with no bathroom breaks. He wondered if she was even going to sleep or eat. She would have to, at some point. Or maybe her nerves would set in first, and she’d turn for home with her tail between her legs, unable to do anything. He sincerely doubted that.

 

The first stop came near sundown, when she pulled off for gas. She filled her bike up, disappearing inside. Sandor parked down the street, watching her closely. She came out with a candy bar and some water. She paused before her bike to finish it off, before getting back on. He waited until she was a good distance away before following after her, ignoring his own hunger. She managed a ways into the dark before she pulled off and into a small motel for sleep. Sandor circled the area, checking for any enemies, before deciding that it was as good enough a place as any for what he had to do.

 

“Hey.” He tried to give the lady at the front desk a charming smile when he walked into the office. She looked up at him, clearly not buying it.

 

“You want a room?” She asked, with a low voice that spoke of her ceaseless dedication to smoking heavily most of her life.

 

“Yeah--” He started and she stuck her hand out.

 

“Thirty-five bucks a night. You can’t pay right now, you don’t stay.”

 

“Ah, no.” He gritted his teeth. “I don’t need a room, I need someone that’s already in a room. Short kid, here just a couple minutes ago.”

 

“Yeah, what about ‘um?” The woman turned suspicious in a heartbeat, narrowing her beady eyes at him and crossing her arms.

 

“Why do you fucking need to know?” Sandor questioned her. “Give me a key or I’ll break down the door, you understand me?”

 

“Why do you need to know?” The woman questioned again tartly, leaning back and glaring at him. “I ain’t having you going in there and taking ‘um for the sex trade or whatever - that’d be bad for my business. I got a reputation, you hear me?”

 

“That kid--” Sandor yanked his shirt over so that she could see the bloodstained cloth that Talisa had used to cover his shoulder wound. “Shot me. Will shoot anyone else who gets in his way. I’m a bounty hunter you fucking moron, so tell me the room and no one gets hurt.”

 

“Christ then, put that shit away. Blood makes me sick.” She complained, tapping on the ancient computer with chipped nails. “You got a name then?”

 

“No. Probably using a fake.” Sandor muttered. He hoped Arya was smart enough to know that she needed to use a fake name.

 

“Typical. Fucking criminals.” The woman said, mostly to herself. “Whole goddamn place is crawling with criminals. Can’t clean my rooms without finding guns and condoms and drugs. Bunch of fucking degenerates ruining my good business.”

 

“Yeah.” Sandor agreed, noncommittally, not bothering to comment on the state of her ‘good business’. He tapped his fingers impatiently.

 

“This who you’re looking for?” She demanded. “Checked in like half an hour ago, goes by the name of Nym Winter? Weird fucking name.”

 

“Yeah, that’s it.” Sandor said, thinking of Nymeria and the winter snows. She was clever, he would have to give her that. Except he was smarter than she was.

 

“Yeah, room 15. Here’s the master key, don’t be breaking shit down.” She tossed him a keychain. He caught it, gave her a nod of thanks and went back outside.

 

“If she shoots me again, I get to fucking shoot her back.” He muttered under his breath, to no one in particular. “That’s just fair.”

 

He found room 15 and knocked carefully, listening for her to scramble inside. There was nothing but quiet and stillness. He frowned, wondering if she'd fallen asleep already. He knocked again, louder this time, then reached back for his gun. He knocked one last time, pressing his ear to the wooden door to listen for any noise within. Alarm rose when he heard nothing.

 

He shoved the key into the lock, wrenching the door open and walking in with his gun drawn. He looked around, waiting for her to come up out of the dingy darkness swinging, guns blazing and teeth snarling like she had before. Instead there was nothing but the faint smell of bleach and musty sheets. He looked around in a panic, wondering if she’d been taken, before spotting a note on the bed.

 

He groaned aloud, putting his gun away and reaching down to snatch it up. The thing he noticed was that Arya’s handwriting was almost identical to Sansa’s, except for the harsh slashing line and the fact that Sansa would never write anything like this note. He sat down to read it, sighing and mentally berating himself for his cocky stupidity and where it’d landed him.

 

_**FUCK OFF** _

__

_**I’VE SHOT YOU BEFORE I’LL DO IT AGAIN** _

__

_**DON’T COME ANYWHERE NEAR ME** _

__

_**I’LL KILL YOU** _

 

“Hell.” He muttered, rubbing his face and crumbling up the note in his fist. Well, he’d thought her smart. He’d thought her savvy. Now she was proving it, and he was getting everything he asked for. He looked at the untouched room before getting up heavily.

 

Back on the road it was then.

 

“Did you get ‘um?” The woman asked, when he opened the door to her office to toss the keys back to her. He gritted his teeth.

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Damn shame, you know, those fucking--” She began but Sandor slammed the door in her face. He didn’t have time for her bullshit.

 

Arya was more careful after that. She didn’t let herself be tracked and so he was left to try to beat her to Joffrey, more and more ill at ease as he went. He had no idea how far Joffrey’s control had gotten, or what it would even mean if one of the Lions came across him. All he was that if he didn’t get to Arya before they did, Ned Stark wouldn’t have been the only Stark to go south and die.

 

It was endless driving, searching and hunting for her, trying to figure out where the hell she would go. The entire time he cussed. He cussed out Ned Stark for dying, he cussed out Robb Stark for going to war, he cussed out Jon Snow because he could, he cussed out the little wolf bitch, and he even cussed out Sansa, just for a single second in a fit of anger.

 

He had no idea where she was, so he sighed and decided to get something to eat. He was meandering through a small town just west of Joffrey, and when he spotted a food truck advertising gyros, he rationalized that Arya wasn’t going to get in serious trouble in the amount of time it took for him to pull off and scarf one down. He ordered and sat on a low wall, watching the people around him in vague disinterest.

 

There was some sort of fair or festival going on. Kids of all ages were running around, cheering and chasing each other. Parents stood around the town square, talking idly and watching their children. No one seemed to notice Sandor sitting, watching, thinking. It was a standard gathering for everyone involved and he was ruminating on if these people had been touched by Joffrey’s war when he suddenly sat straight up.

 

Someone was watching him. He felt it on his back, felt the gaze and all the hair on the back of his neck rose up. He very carefully finished his gyro, licking his thumb and crumpling the wrapper in his hand. He looked around calmly, noting the garbage can a couple feet to his left. He slowly got up, wondering how to draw his gun. Then a little boy sprinted past, hooting and waving a purple monkey.

 

Away from the families. That was what was important then. If he could get away from them, then he could avoid anyone getting hurt. No innocents. He wondered if that was Sansa’s influence as he turned and walked down a side street, hands in his pocket, whistling. He felt the eyes on him, and waited for the knife to the throat or the bullet to the gut.

 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” A voice hissed from a dark doorway and he started, handing going to the gun before stopping.

 

“Arya?” He demanded and her angry face appeared from the gloom, fury written across it. Sandor was frankly surprised that he didn’t have another bullet in him.

 

“I said leave me the fuck alone.” She reminded him fiercely, but he ignored her in favor of having a moment of self congratulation. He’d found her, without even trying. Maybe he was smarter than he thought he was, maybe he hadn’t gotten so out of practice---

 

“Hey!” He caught her elbow when she tried to storm off past him. “Hey, no, no, no, where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

 

“Let go of me.” Arya rounded on him, eyes flashing. “I’m going to kill Trant!”

 

“Who?” He stared at her blankly and she stood struggling to look at him incredulously. He stared right back, uncomprehending.

 

“Meryn Trant. Toad? He’s one of the Lions? The Toad? Known for molesting little girls?” She listed off rapidly and he blinked.

 

“Fucking Trant is here?”

 

“Yes?” Arya looked at him, less and less impressed as the conversation rolled on out. Even he was less impressed with himself.

 

“What?” He stared at her and Arya sighed, taking a patient breath like a teacher about to explain something to a very dumb student.

 

“Listen,” She said, with faux politeness. “I know my brother sent you here to get me back because mom is a walking panic attack and that my sister thinks the sunshine shines out your asshole, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m not here to be babysat or taken back home. Robb can go on playing his war, I’m going to get shit done. I’m going to kill every fucking Lion I can.”

 

“Hey, hey, hey, alright.” Sandor stopped her from blowing past him. “How the fuck did you know Toad would be here? How the fuck do you even know what he looks like?”

 

“Please.” Arya looked at him like he was an idiot. It seemed to be a permanent expression of hers regarding him. “Have you ever heard of the internet?”

 

“Alright, fucking cut the sass.” He ordered, narrowing his eyes. “You know he’s here? You know which one he is? And how the fuck do you know he molests little girls?”

 

“The internet.” Arya repeated, slower, enunciating the words pointedly. “You can find mugshots online for anyone. Probably even your scarred shit. And if they have a mugshot, they have a record. You find their records, open them up, see what’s inside. He’s been arrested a bunch for standard outlaw shit, but he’s also a registered sex offender. He got turned in for exposing himself to a 4 year old.”

 

“The fuck?” He looked at her in horror. Trant had always repulsed him, but he had always chalked that up to the fact that every man in the clubhouse was some form of a dirtball.

 

“Exactly.” Arya patted his chest. “So he’s going to die first.”

 

“No, no, hey, wait.” He ordered, throwing his arm out so that she stayed in the alley. She glared up at him but didn’t draw a gun, so he took that as his cue to keep going. “You say he’s here. You wanna kill him? Tell me where he is and how you’re going to do it then.”

 

“He’s Pasty Face the Clown.” Arya stated and he sighed heavily.

 

“That’s fucking typical.”

 

“And I’ll kill him.” Arya stated then shrugged. “It shouldn’t be hard, it’s not like he’s a genius. I mean, I’m already smarter than you and -- hey!” She protested, as he grabbed her around the waist and tossed her over his shoulder, marching away the from the busy town square.

 

“Would you-- _Ow!_ \-- stop kicking me?” He demanded as they went and Arya’s small fists pounded into his back instead.

 

“I swear to god when you put me down I am going to kill you.” She threatened, when he rounded a corner and went down another back alley.

 

“Or I’ll put you down, you listen to what I have to say, and then I’ll help you kill him. Just don’t fucking shoot me, alright?” He bargained and Arya was still and silent.

 

“Fine.” She said sullenly and he gave her a second to think about it. Then he unceremoniously dumped her down onto some pallets.

 

“No more shooting.” He ordered her and she huffed, folding her arms. For a second, he saw her as the teenager she still was. “Now listen to me. What did you see back there? You’re so smart then, tell me what exactly is going on out there.”

 

“It’s a thanks festival.” She said, still pouting. “Some Disney moms here think that we shouldn’t be celebrating the whole Pilgrims thing so instead they do this shit and--”

 

“Ok, fucking fast forward.” He instructed her, glaring at her.

 

“He’s a clown, he’s doing balloon animals by the mini corn dog stand.” She muttered sullenly. “He’s probably going to--”

 

“No, none of that.” He tapped her between her eyes and she started, opening her mouth to protest furiously but he cut her off. “Are you thinking at all?”

 

“Hey!” She said sharply but he went on.

 

“What do clowns do, you moron?”

 

“Clown shit.” Arya threw her hands up. “I don’t know, whatever the fuck clowns do, make jokes, balloon animals, that shit--”

 

“Aye and who do they do it for?” He pressed and for a moment she looked ready to burst before understanding came across her face.

 

“Kids.” She said quietly and he nodded.

 

“Aye. Fucking kids. And do you know who you might shoot if you fucking miss the child molesting biker?” He laid out and she sighed.

 

“Alright. Fine. Fine. Fine.” She waved her hands. “I get it. You were right, I was wrong, I get it now. So what are we going to do about it?”

 

“You tell me, genius.” He folded his arms and stared down at her. She huffed, glaring at him for a long moment before shifting into pacing.”What are we going to do?”

 

“We get him away from the kids.” She said logically.

 

“How?”

 

“We lure him away.”

 

“How?”

 

“I don’t know, I…” She looked at him and frowned slightly. “Wait. Why don’t you just tell me what we’re going to do if you have a plan?”

 

“No.” He sat down on an overturned bucket. “You think you’re so smart and you had all these plans, then let’s see them in action.”

 

There was a long pause of silence as Arya huffed and puffed, pacing back and forth, frowning and muttering about things. She would steal furtive glances at him. He sat calmly, twiddling his thumbs and whistling, watching her. She was far shorter than Sansa and they held nothing in common besides the pale skin. She had none of Sansa’s grace or poise.

 

“Alright.” She said quietly, sitting down across from him. She’d shifted into a calmer version, losing some of her spark. “What is it then?”

 

“What did you do wrong?” He questioned and she looked ready to go off again but calmed herself down, taking a deep breath.

 

“Got sloppy.” She admitted.

 

“You wanted revenge too bad.” He corrected. “That made you sloppy. You’re a good shot, and I think you might make a good killer given enough time. Don’t tell anyone I said that, or I’ll fucking deny it, you hear me? So right here, right now, tell me you can leave your revenge at the door.”

 

“I am going to avenge my father--” She started hotly and he waved a hand.

 

“Fine, fine, fucking whatever. I get it. That’s fine. But you have to promise me that you stay above it. Don’t let it in. You don’t fucking endanger kids, innocent people. You know your role, you always remain above it. Look around, take it in, make the best choice.” He stared at her so she took in his full seriousness.

 

“Fine.” Arya took a deep breath. “Ok, got it. My revenge blinded me. I wanted to kill him so badly I didn’t think about endangering other people. Sorry.”

 

“Good.” He said stoutly and they looked at each, hesitating to see where it would go now. He stuck his hand out to her.

 

“Ok.” Arya shook it and then straightened out her black clothes before looking up at him. “Can we go kill the bastard now?”

 

“Fine, but you listen to me, alright? No questions.” He ordered and she gritted her teeth, struggling for a long moment before caving.

 

“Ok fine, can we go?”

 

“Alright.” He turned down the alley, away from her. “And what the fuck do you mean she thinks sunshine comes out my asshole?”

 

“Not the moment dude. Not the fucking moment.”

 

He watched as she got into position. Now that he was aware of Toad’s presence, he saw what he’d been missing. The man’s fat, cruel face was painted white with an exaggerated red smile and a rainbow wig adorned his head. He had a little boy on his lap, as kids in front of him chattered and played with toys and balloon animals. It made him grit his teeth, but it wouldn’t take long. Nothing bad could happen to the kids, not in public. But that didn’t mean he didn’t dislike it.

 

A flash from his left meant the Arya was ready, so he picked up a popcorn box some child had left behind and went striding towards the clown show. He shouldered his way to the front of the crowd, taking a handful of stale popcorn and munching on it, watching Toad. He was talking and making balloon animals, and as the parents near Sandor growled and muttered in annoyance, Toad looked up.

 

Sandor ate another handful, looking Toad directly in the eye. He trailed off and when his beady eyes went wide, Sandor knew that his part was complete. He munched on popcorn before turning around and walking away from Toad with even steps. He heard the commotion behind him, heard Toad trying to get past people and he tossed the popcorn aside.

 

He kept walking, evenly, towards the alley. He stuck his hands in his pockets once again, whistling a cheery little tune. He could hear Trant behind him but he didn’t look back. He kept walking, waiting for the moment that Toad would strike. It didn’t take long; he wasn’t even to the alley when the low voice came up from behind him like a vile cloud of smoke.

 

“Clegane you fucking bastard, I have a--”

 

Sandor turned, looking at him with a small little smile. Toad had stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. Arya stood behind him, a knife pressed to the pudgy rolls of skin at his neck. Sandor gave a little smile as Arya eased him into the darkness of the alley, her savage little smile back on her face. Sandor waited until she’d gotten him down on his knees in front of her.

 

“You got this?” He asked her quietly and Arya’s little smile grew.

 

“Yeah.” She said, almost tenderly, the knife biting harder into Toad’s neck. “I’ve got this. Do you know who I am, you bastard?”

 

“No.” Toad grunted and Sandor turned his back, watching out for any people are Arya carried on behind him, voice quiet.

 

“My name is Arya Stark. Do you know who my father is?”

 

“Ned… Ned… Ned Stark.”

 

“Yes.” Arya uttered and Sandor used his pinky nail to dig a kernel out from between his back teeth. “And you stood by while they killed him.”

 

“He was a traitor. He deserved it.” Toad spat and then went silent again. Sandor imagined that Arya’s knife was biting a bit deeper.

 

“He was not!” Her voice was raw with pain and something inside him twinged. There was her connection to Sansa, the thing that marked them as sisters; their pain reminded identical. “He was a father! A good man! And you killed him for it!”

 

“Girl.” Sandor said tersely, waiting for some child to wander down the wrong road and come upon them and the horror.

 

“Traitor!” Toad accused him and Sandor glanced back over his shoulder at him. The man’s eyes were bulging and he was shaking. Sandor sniggered.

 

“Who the fuck said I was ever loyal to you?” He turned back around. “Get on with it then wolf-bitch, we don’t have all day.”

 

“For the north.” Arya whispered and there was a spluttering wet gasp and Sandor didn’t turn around, waiting until Arya stood next to him, her knife hidden back somewhere on her body. She stared straight ahead and didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He waited for her to say or do something but she simply cracked her neck and then looked up at him. “Hungry?” She asked and he paused, then gave a shrug and a nod.

 

“Yeah, sure.” They left the alley, before getting on their bikes. They left behind the little town with it’s little festival and the body of Meryn Trant, bleeding out in an alley.

 

They found a dingy roadside diner, with grease coated burgers and fries to eat. Sandor smiled to see that Arya dipped her fries in a milkshake, remembering that Sansa had always done just that. It wasn’t looks the Stark girls shared; it was something deeper. They were two sides of a coin; always facing different directions, but forever made of the same stuff and bonded together.

 

Arya ate in mostly silence. He watched her curiously but her emotions didn’t play out across her face like they did on Sansa’s. She was silent, her eyes dark, and she ate with the flat mechanism that required no emotions on her part. He wondered what would happen now, if she would let him take her home or if she would continue to fight him on it.

 

“Alright.” He said, once they were nearly finished. Arya slurped down the remainder of her milkshake, staring him down.     

 

“What?”

 

“What are we doing then?” He demanded, taking one of her fries and eating it. “Are you going back where you belong?”

 

“I belong here.” Arya didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. Her calm was unflappable and he had to admit that he was impressed by it.

 

“You belong in the north, Nym Winter.” He stated and she looked down at her hands for a long moment. When she looked up, he saw all ice.

 

“No, I don’t. I belong here. I belong to revenge, to death, to this. The north is safe, it’s for my mother and Sansa and the boys. But I’m going to stay here until I’ve killed everyone that hurt my family. So you can help me or you can go home.” She said flatly.

 

“Listen.” He said, not unkindly. “I fucking get it, ok? Most of my life has been waiting for some goddamn revenge. I get it. But you keep going after this fucking thing, it’s going to kill you. And I think it’s pretty fucking clear that your family won’t be too happy about that. So come home, see your family, and do it right.” He gave her a long stare and Arya sighed.

 

“Fine. I’ll go but you have to tell Robb to let me come back. I’m not done.” Arya bargained and Sandor stuck out his hand.

 

“Fucking deal. Now let’s go, before they get suspicious.” Hands were shook and money slapped down before two bikes roared away.

 

That night they sat in a motel. A part of him was amused that he was in such a similar situation as he had been in with Sansa, but things were absolutely different with Arya. Two seperate beds, two seperate bags, two separate everything. Arya cleaned her gun meticulously while he pulled the notebook out of his bag and started flipping through it.

 

“Why do you have that?” She demanded suddenly and he looked up at her, then back at the ragged notebook. Arya was watching it with covetous eyes. Part of him wanted to hide the notebook away from her, to keep Sansa to himself.

 

“She left it.” He said slowly.

 

“And you just look through it?” Arya’s frown was deepening, a large crease appearing between her eyebrows. “Give it to me.”

 

“Why?” He automatically tried to shield it away and Arya leapt from her bed to his, grabbing for the notebook. He fought her off, trying to protect it.

 

“Give it to me! Give it!” She ordered and he roughly shoved her off. She fell back onto the bed and sprang up like a jack in the box, except with more rage.

 

“Don’t fucking touch it.” He said to her with a glare. “Don’t you fucking touch it, or I’ll take your fucking hands off you little bitch.”

 

“It’s not yours!” Arya yelled fiercely.

 

“Aye, but it was Sansa’s.” He responded.

 

“Why do you care?” Arya burst, rage coming forth like a toddler spurned. “Why do you even fucking care? She’s my sister, she’s my sister, she’s my fucking sister! Mine! Show me!” He waited for her to stomp her feet and throw herself on the ground for effect.

 

“Why the hell do you want it so bad?” He questioned, holding her off with his feet.

 

“Because it’s hers!” She yelled. “It’s hers, it’s hers, it’s hers!” For the first time, he saw her heart crack open and pour out just a little bit.

 

“Here.” He shoved it towards her, surprising even himself. “Here then, look. But if you damage it, I’ll fucking rip you in two.”

 

Arya took the notebook greedily, opening up the pages and flipping through them. She stopped on visions of the wolves, and on drawings of their family. She stared longest at the one that had her and Sansa, juxtapositized on opposite sides, their wolves mingled between them. Her fingers reached out and touched Lady’s face. She went to the next one, a recreation of Winterfell.

 

“She did all of these.” Arya muttered and Sandor wasn’t sure if it was a question or a confirmation, so he stayed silent. “When she was there.”

 

“And on the road.” He grunted, seeing the next drawing. It was the range of mountain tops, and he recalled the way her hair had blown in the breeze the day she’d drawn them. Sansa had loved the mountains. She loved the damn things and now he apparently did too.

 

“Do you love her?” Arya looked up at him without preamble and as much as he wanted to snarl and push away, he saw the drawing of him, rough and unfinished, a study of him with guns. He remembered Sansa doing it, and how he hadn’t minded.

 

“I spent my whole life screaming.” He said instead, looking down at his scarred arms and hands. “Sansa was the first one who ever heard me… And it fucking terrified me.”

 

“Is that why you took her?” Arya’s voice was nearly soft.

 

“Aye.” He said quietly. “It was.”

 

“I don’t think you took her.” Arya said quietly and the next drawing was that of arms, intertwined. No faces belonged to them, but one was large and rough, the other thin and smooth. It wasn’t difficult to imagine them onto himself and Sansa. “I think she took you.”

 

“Might be.” He decided he’d had enough of Arya Stark, with her prying eyes and her questions that felt too real. He laid down and rolled over. “Shoot anyone who tries to get in, will you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um so the arya moodboard is my most fav, plz feel free to check it out on my tumblr and also be my friend there ok rad
> 
> i hope you all enjoyed this, i have so much fun writing it, and reviews are just the cherry on top!


	22. Dark Side,  Phoebe Ryan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISED I WOULDN'T KEEP THEM APART FOR LONG
> 
> PLZ REWARD ME WITH REVIEWS IF YOU LIKE IT THEY'RE MY SAVING GRACE
> 
> ENJOY

Sansa felt like she was going vaguely stir crazy. Every day that passed without word from Sandor or Arya made her feel like she was losing her mind. She had the phone on her at all times, waiting for a call with her heart in her throat, knowing that it could be awful news. Except it never came. Even Robb called, making sure that home was alright. But not Sandor and Arya.

 

So she had to resort to other measures to keep herself distracted. She painted like mad, trying to recall the mountains and sights they’d seen on their journey. She sketched Sandor as she remembered him, she sketched Rickon in his wild woods and learned to scamber like a squirrel in the branches with him. She drew with Bran, and listened to his new, otherworldly music.  

 

She even spent a day with Brienne, learning the basics of self defense. She had to rest her head more often then she’d like, but it was working. She felt stronger as the days went on, but there was still the missing piece of her heart. She’d sat in the woods for a long while, and had ended on the knowledge that she was in love with him and there was nothing else. He was it.

 

She tried her best to understand her mother, to see her point of view, and understand the devastation she faced. It was had to pass by all the photos with her father in them, smiling down, and to know there would never be any more of them. But each day was a new day for them, and she was determined to greet it with a smile and some sense of joy.

 

It seemed like weeks until the moment that she heard the sound of two bikes coming up the driveway. She was holding a full mug of tea, intent on taking it to the large, comfy chair beside the window in the library, when she heard the distinct rumble of bikes. She spilled tea all of the counter and her hands trying to set it down and race outside. She was shaking burning water off her skin when she threw the door open.

 

There, in the yard, parking his bike in one of the many garages that littered their property, was Sandor. It was like he’d never left, never went anywhere at all. It was like he’d always been there. And behind him was Arya, parking her own bike. Sandor stood and looked at her, then turned back to Arya. No words were exchanged that Sansa could hear but then Arya nodded and went away from the house, down one of the many tiny paths that led to the boundaries of their property.

 

Sansa wanted to yell after Arya, but her lungs had frozen shut. Cotton filled her mouth, making it impossible for words to get past. She could only stare at Sandor, as he slowly began walking towards the house. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, that Rickon and the wolves had emerged from the woods and were watching. Brienne opened the door behind her and Sansa felt her mother’s hand on her waist, a gently calming presence. They all stood, watching and waiting.

 

When he got to the front porch, he took his dark grey eyes off Sansa and looked over to Brienne and Catelyn. Sansa wanted to launch herself at him, but she remembered who she was. She stayed in place, waiting for someone to speak and break the thick silence that was gathering. It turned out to be Brienne, her voice cold and her question curt.

 

“Where’s Arya going?”

 

“Don’t know.” He said quietly. “She said she was going to go let her pack know that she was home and to plan, whatever the fuck that means.”

 

“Probably going to find Pod.” Sansa said softly. Sandor’s gaze swung to her and for a long moment, she felt like she was flying on the back of his bike again.

 

“What the fuck is a Pod?” He demanded then and Sansa couldn’t help her trembling smile even as she heard Bran snickering and her mother’s soft tuts of disapproval.

 

“My adopted son.” Brienne said stiffly. She’d adopted him so long ago that Sansa had never even thought of him as anything else. He was the only person who had any sense of sway over Arya and was the only person Sansa knew that could keep her wild little sister in check for longer than a few minutes. He was part of her pack, as were several others that Sansa had grown up with.

 

“Oh.” Sandor’s gaze flicked to Brienne but was immediately back on Sansa. She was suddenly aware of her family’s gaze and wished desperately they were gone.

 

“I’m Brienne.” She offered her hand to Sandor. “I lead security for Catelyn and her children.” Sandor stared at her hand and for a second Sansa was terrified that Sandor was going to make a sarcastic comment and refuse to shake it.

 

“Sandor Clegane.” He took her hand and shook, and Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. .

 

“I am Catelyn Stark.” Sansa’s mother stepped forward and Sansa noticed that even with her frail shoulders back and proud, her mother looked no bigger than a child compared to Sandor. However, he softened slightly and offered his hand.

 

“My apologies for your late husband.” He said, surprisingly gentle. Catelyn glanced back at Sansa, her eyebrows raised high.

 

“Thank you.” She said primly, before hesitating and adding, “And thank you for returning my daughters to me. Both of them.”

 

“Ah, well.” He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly unsure of what to say. Bran solved the uncomfortable dilemma by stepping forward, offering his hand with a sly, all-knowing smile.

 

“I’m Bran.” He announced and Sandor smirked, shaking it.

 

“Ah, course you are.” He looked Bran up and down while Bran did the same.

 

“Nazareth.” Bran pointed to his shirt, an old faded one Sansa knew was soft to the touch and faded down from years of washing.

 

“And what’s a boy like you know about a band like them?” He questioned, squinting at Bran, who simply gave a slightly lazy smile.

 

“They’re alright.” Sandor’s eyebrows flew up, but then Bran seemed to remember why Sandor was here and turned back to Sansa. She went to reach out, wanting to feel him again when suddenly three balls of fur launched themselves at him.

 

“Ghost! Lady! Off!” Sansa yelled, as Sandor caught the wolves and stumbled backwards. Shaggy’s dark fur was mingled with that of his siblings and though Sansa had serious doubts that Ghost or Lady would ever hurt anyone, she did not hold the same opinion of Shaggy. “Shaggy, no!”

 

“Quit chirping little bird.” Sandor said gruffly, holding a wiggling Lady under his arm like a football while he pushed Ghost and Shaggy off him. “Dogs like dogs, don’t they?”

 

“They’re wolves.” Rickon’s wide eyes were watching the scene with mild interest. He seemed to have appeared from nowhere but Sandor didn’t flinch. He simply gave Rickon a long look before nodding and petting Ghost. The wolves seemed not to care about the new man in their midst. Sansa thought that perhaps they knew him. Knew what he was like. Knew he was one of them.

 

“Do we need to have a conversation about security measures?” Brienne still spoke as if a knife was being held to her throat.

 

“No.” Sandor gave a little shrug. “I think Arya caught me up on most of it.”

 

“Well, alright. Sansa, you can see if he needs anything, show him to a room in the barn?” Catelyn suggested in a warning tone. Sansa wanted to laugh. Here she was, nearly 22 years old, and her mother was still sending boys halfway across the woods to keep him from sneaking into Sansa’s bed.

 

“Of course mom.”

 

“Rickon, I want to see if you’re any better with the axe.” Brienne said, pointedly stepping past Sandor so that he could see they were of very nearly the same height. Then she went with Rickon towards one of the many sheds, all the wolves trotting with him except Lady, who remained at Sandor’s feet. Catelyn and Bran both murmured their excuses and went back into the house.  

 

“Let me get a good look at you.” Sandor was in front of her in a heartbeat, reaching out and taking her chin. Everything seemed to go hazy and she could only smile up at him. His grey eyes didn’t see it; he was busy inspecting her from head to toe. He ran a hand over her hair, which was nearly back to her normal copper shade. A smile was threatening at the corners of his mouth as he gently ran his fingers through it.

 

“It feels better.” She told him quietly when he held her head, touching her temples gently. Her head did feel better, except for the headaches that still lingered on some mornings. She wasn’t so dizzy anymore, nor did she feel the need to throw up. She knew she was healing; she’d been through concussions before. What annoyed her was how long it seemed to take.

 

“Good.” He muttered, using his thumb to smooth out the wrinkles that had appeared on her forehead with one broad stroke. “And this?” His hand went to touch the bullet wound. Sansa couldn’t help but hiss and pull away from the contact in pain.

 

“No.” She said instantly, when she saw him begin to draw back and away from her. She caught his hand quickly, entangling her fingers with his. “No, not that. It’s ok. It just hurts, you know? It’s fine. I’m fine, Sandor, I promise I really am.”

 

“You were shot.” The pain in his eyes made it seem like he was the one that had been hurt, not her. “You were shot because of me.”

 

“I was shot because the Frey’s are traitorous, murderous cunts.” Sansa stated firmly. “They shot me, not you. You got me out of there.”

 

“I was useless.” He muttered. “I didn’t know anything. I froze up, I put you in danger little bird, I was the one who should have--”

 

“There was fire.” Sansa shivered. She didn’t remember much of that night exactly, but she trusted the nightmares of a wall of fire were real enough. She reached up and touched his cheek. She knew his secret. She knew that above all else he feared the flames.

 

“Aye, and I was a coward.” He whispered, avoiding her eyes. “A fucking coward and you got hurt because of me and that’s--”

 

“Would you shut up?” Sansa demanded, grabbing his face and holding it so that he had no choice but to look her in the eyes. “Shut the fuck up.”

 

“I--” He went to start but then her look hushed him and he stayed quiet, eyes on her, watching her like was going to attack him.

 

“You did everything for me.” Sansa whispered. “Absolutely fucking everything, and I don’t want to hear about how you messed it up or that you didn’t do enough for me. You were my saving grace, ok? In that hell. I remember, I remember it all.”

 

“Then you remember how fucking awful I was.” His voice broke and his eyes dropped away from hers. With a noise of annoyance, Sansa lifted them back up.

 

“No, I remember how good you were. That you were kind and caring and compassionate even when you didn’t want to be. Even when your instincts were screaming at you not to be. That is the mark of a good man.” She urged him to understand the words she couldn’t yet say.

 

“Life is not a song little bird.” He looked at her. “I’m not a fucking knight, I’m a fucking murderer and thief and a whole lot worse.”

 

“At what point are you going to understand that I don’t care?” Sansa demanded, backing up and crossing her arms. “Did I ever say you had to be anything else? Did I ever tell you that you had to be shiny and perfect and good? When the fuck did I ever say that, huh?”

 

“You’re you.” He gestured to her, then to the property around her. The trees were shedding the very last of their leaves and the house behind her sprawled out. Even Sansa herself fit the picturesque scene with her chunky cable knit sweater hanging down around her shoulders. “You’re this!”

 

“And what the fuck is this?” Sansa jutted her chin out. “What the hell is this?”

 

“It’s a big fucking house in the middle of nowhere. You’re a pretty fucking girl with a good college education that probably deserves better than this.” He looked simultaneously irate and helpless.

 

“I honestly don’t know what to say to you right now.” Sansa stared at him, bewildered. She had wanted so badly for him to come, sweep her off her feet, and declare him madly in love with her. They’d live happily ever after away in the mountains like she thought. But now he was here. And she didn’t think he even wanted to be.

 

“I should go.” He muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets and looking back over his shoulder. Sansa gaped at him in disbelief.

 

“Really? That’s all there is? You drag me across like seven states, you go hunt down Arya and do god knows what with her, and then you come back for what?” She threw her hands up. “For fucking what?”

 

“I don’t know Sansa!” He yelled. “Why the fuck would you want me to come back?”

 

She stayed quiet, silently fuming. She didn’t know what to say to him. She couldn’t do anything in this moment to make him stay. She couldn’t do anything at all but be here. Then she looked down at Lady, pretty Lady, who still sat at Sandor’s feet. Her eyes looked at her, wise and all knowing. Sansa gave her a little smile then raised her eyes to his, before giving a tiny shrug.

 

“Wanted you to meet Lady. Thought that after all my talking about her and drawing her you should get a chance to actually meet her.” Sansa knelt and opened her arms. Lady bounded into them eagerly and Sansa wrapped her arms around her neck.

 

“Sansa.” Sandor looked at her and she remained quiet before sighing and standing.

 

“Alright look.” She said quietly. “I’m not making you stay. We don’t need to… Talk, or whatever this is. It’s fine, honestly. Just stay, take a shower, rest? I don’t even know if you’re hurt or not. You can eat, sleep, whatever. I don’t even know what your plan is.”

 

“Never have a fucking plan.” He muttered and Sansa went up the porch steps, opening the door.

 

“You don’t have to.” She said simply, watching him. “You just have to stop running for a second. Think you can do that?”

 

“Aye.” He walked up the stairs and through the door. “Might be able to.”  

 

“Alright.” She said, and shut the door behind them.

 

It didn’t take long for Sansa’s family to rescind their previous decision to leave them alone. Catelyn hovered in the kitchen while Sansa reheated leftovers and gave them to Sandor. Bran pretended to be reading on the couch. Sandor told them about Robb but didn’t say a word about Arya. Sansa decided she clearly needed to have a talk with her little sister.

 

After Sandor had showered and been sent off to a room to sleep, Sansa took Lady and went outside. The walk to Pod and Brienne’s house wasn’t a long one, and by the time she came upon the simple cabin, she didn’t feel quite so cagey. Pod was sitting outside in a chair, calmly and quietly carving a piece of wood. He looked up at the sound of her arrival.

 

“Hey Sansa.” He said quietly when she went up the steps. Lady eagerly went to sniff him for treats and Sansa gave him a little smile.

 

“She in there?” She asked quietly.

 

“Yeah.” He gave Lady a bit of beef jerky.

 

“You sure that your shit’s going to make it out of there intact?” Sansa asked him, eyeing the house and Pod gave a chuckle.

 

“Not a fucking chance.” He took another shaving off. “But she’s here and not dead somewhere in SoCal so my shit getting wrecked is the price to pay.”

 

“Good point.” Sansa liked Pod. He’d always been a voice of reason in Arya’s wild hurricane ways, and he understood her better than Sansa could ever hope to. “Think she’ll talk to me?”

 

“I think so.” Pod scratched his head. “Maybe duck and cover though.”

 

“She can’t hit me, I have a concussion.” Sansa declared and opened the door. The living room was still neat, so Sansa headed to the basement where Pod lived. If Arya was going to destroy anything it would be that and not Brienne’s things. When she went down the stairs, there were no yells or raging or even things to duck. All was still. She found Arya in Pod’s bedroom, straightening out his bookshelf of all things. Sansa stopped, wondering what alternate universe she’d stumbled into.

 

“I’m not destroying things, if that’s why you’re here.” Arya said darkly, shoving another book into place, making the change atop the bookshelf rattle.

 

“It wasn’t, but now I’m pleasantly surprised.” Sansa sat down atop Pod’s rumpled bed. “Why are you doing this, can I ask?”

 

“Pod organizes everything else, but not his fucking books.” Arya said darkly. “It was annoying the shit out of me, so I’m fixing it.”

 

“Oh.” Sansa didn’t know what else to say or do so she sat and watched as Arya arranged and rearranged the books silently. “Mom and Brienne have agreed to let him stay. Sandor, that is. Rest up for a bit.”

 

“That’s good.” Arya dug through her piles.

 

“Is it?” Sansa asked quietly. “He’s… I don’t know. Not what I expected.”

 

“Well what did you expect?” Arya turned and gave her a scornful look. “He’s not a fucking knight in shining armor, Sansa.”

 

“God, now you sound like him.” Sansa said darkly. “Did you two just drive around, talking about how stupid I am, how naive?”

 

“No, we killed a man.” Arya said plainly and Sansa’s heart stopped. Arya kept shelving books, the silence of the house growing until it was deafening. She wanted to call her sister a liar. She wanted to believe it too. But even if everyone still thought her Sansa of the songs, head full of romantic ideas, she was not stupid anymore. She knew her sister and she knew Sandor. She even knew death now.

 

“Who?” She asked, her voice soft but steady.

 

“Toad.” Arya responded, and her voice didn’t even trip on the name. It was nothing to her, nothing that a man was dead and gone because of her.

 

“Who?” Sansa asked again, and Arya didn’t blink.

 

“Me.”

 

“And he…”

 

“Helped, yeah. He said he’d help with more, if I came back and did it right, with Robb’s permission.” Arya informed her and Sansa’s long nails were digging into her skin, but she didn’t notice.

 

“And you’re going to do that?” Sansa demanded of her. “You’re going to do that, really? Go ride off and kill everyone?”

 

“Yes.” Arya had no hesitation whatsoever. “If Robb lets me, and he will let me.”

 

“And you’d take Sandor?” Sansa’s voice skipped like a broken piece of music, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t want him to go anymore. She didn’t want to share him with Arya. She didn’t want him to be anywhere that wasn’t by her side.

 

“He’d take me.” Arya gave her a funny look. “Do you even know him? Do you even know that he’s a killer Sansa? That’s what he’s good at.”

 

“Trust me, I know!” Sansa exploded. “I know exactly who he is! I was there when he murdered men, I was the one who tricked them, dragged them into it. I saw him kill people, and I have no illusions about who he fucking is, ok? I know, and I don’t give two fucking shits because he is the best goddamn man to ever happen to me, and I won’t have anyone else--” She cut herself off, unable to speak into existence her hopes and dreams with Sandor. Blood thundering in her ears, she glared at Arya.

 

“Holy shit.” Arya tilted her head in a way that seemed to mimic how her wolf might. Sansa just glowered, unable to do anything with the pounding headache that was growing. “I mean, I knew he did, but I never thought in a million years that you would.”

 

“Would what?” Sansa questioned, annoyed.

 

“Would love him back.” Arya said, as though it should’ve been obvious and Sansa’s head snapped up, looking at her with narrowed eyes.

 

“Don’t.” She warned her little sister, who shrugged and went back to putting books on the shelf, occasionally setting them off to the side.

 

“Fine.” She agreed easily and they both sat in a long silence together, neither of them breaking it. Sansa plucked loose threads from Pod’s bedspread while Arya shelved books, little thuds with each one she slid into place. For a few moments Sansa preoccupied herself trying to figure out the sorting system; alphabetical, by length, author, color. But it seemed like nonsense.

 

“He doesn’t love me.” Sansa said finally, quietly, grabbing a pillow and clutching it close to her stomach. It was in knots at Arya’s words.

 

“Sure.” Another book found its home, a slim tome of Robert Frost’s best poems next to a thick encyclopedia on the letter U. “And Nymeria didn’t kill that bunny in front of you and you didn’t bitch about it for weeks to mom and dad like a ninny.”

 

“It was a baby!” Sansa protested automatically before glaring at her sister. Arya gave her a knowing look and hefted a book on medieval knights.  

 

“He never shuts the fuck up about you.” Arya said wisely. “I would say it’s a little annoying, except it’s really fucking annoying.”

 

“Then why the hell won’t he say he’s going to stay here with me?” Sansa snapped. She clenched her jaw, but the words were already said, out in the world to wreak havoc. Arya watched her with a calm, even expression and Sansa huffed, folding her arms and looking away.

 

“Did he say he was going to go?” Arya asked quietly and Sansa pursed her lips but she’d lost control over her vocal cords, and answered,

 

“He didn’t say he’d stay.”

 

“You asked a man like that to stay?” Arya looked at her incredulously. “Do you even see what you’re doing here or are you fucking blind?”

 

“Don’t be an ass.” Sansa ordered. “What?”

 

“He’s dad!” Arya said, and when her voice broke slightly, Sansa looked away. Tears were welling up, but she managed to shove them back down.

 

“He is not.” She said quietly and Arya sucked in ragged breath before responding.

 

“He is, San, he is and you just don’t want to see it. All of his bullshit about doing the right thing, even though he acts like he doesn’t do it? The way he willing dropped everything to get you out? To come find me? Letting me figure my shit out? Protecting you? Who the hell does that sound like?”

 

“Alright, shut up.” Sansa commanded, putting her head in her hands. Now her headache really was growing worse, and she wanted a nap.

 

“They say that girls marry men like their fathers.” Arya couldn’t resist one last jab and Sansa rose, annoyed and exhausted.

 

“God, you’re such a brat, I can’t believe that I spent so much time worrying if you were ok or not.” She told her darkly. Arya looked up at her.

 

“Right back at you.”

 

“Fine.” Sansa stuck her tongue out. “I’m going. And what fucking order are those books going in anyways? It doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

 

“It’s by how often he reads and how helpful they are.” Arya said, as though it should’ve been obvious and Sansa started her little sister in astonishment for a long moment before a laugh burst out of her and she shook her head slowly.

 

“And Pod’s nothing like dad.” She said quietly, and was out the door before Arya could hit her with a manual on car mechanics. She walked past Pod, before stopping and turning around to look at him quizzically. Once he felt her gaze on him he looked up, raising an eyebrow. He was handsome, she supposed. In a different sort of way. His brown eyes were large and soulful, a glint of curiosity in them as she stared. He wasn’t very tall, but still taller than Arya, and was muscled more since they were children.

 

“Uh, Sansa, you alright?” He asked her, a little worriedly and Sansa shook her head slightly before giving him a bright smile.

 

“Great.” She said quickly. “I just… Sorry I never came down and saw you Pod, when Arya was… You know… Off being Arya.”

 

“Don’t worry.” He gave her an easy smile. “You had other things on your mind. Besides, she’s home now, isn’t she? That’s all that matters.”

 

“Yeah.” Sansa said, still a little astonished that her wild, violent little sister had chosen someone like Pod. But then, she supposed as she headed back for the house, she’d chosen too, and he was nothing like what she would’ve guessed.

 

Back in the house, her mother watched her quietly as Sansa brewed herself some tea, taking a couple pills to hopefully soothe the brutal fighting going on in her head, and grabbing some leftovers to eat while she went to the room where Sandor slept. Catelyn paused in the doorway, looking down at Sansa as she sat down near the window, taking out a book.

 

“I’m not far if you need me.” Catelyn said quietly and Sansa gave her a small smile and nod to let her know she understood. Catelyn nodded back and walked away. Sansa read and drank her tea, occasionally glancing at Sandor. He was deep in sleep, his face slack. He was relaxed, calm, and Sansa was sad that he was so often angry, and there was nothing she could do.

 

She read until the blankets started to rustle. She looked up at him with a slight smile. He must’ve been exhausted, she realized, because he woke up slow, blinking sleep from his eyes, bleary and confused. He looked around, alarm crossing his face before he spotted her. For a second something that might’ve been a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

 

“Hey.” He said, voice raspy and Sansa handed him the glass of water she had set next to his bedside. He drank until it was gone, a little messily with water spilling down into his beard. Sansa smiled, remembering when Rickon was a child and drank much the same way.

 

“Hi.” She said softly, leaning forward with a smile. “How are you?”

 

“Tired.” He admitted and Sansa reached forward on an impulse and took his hand, giving it a tight squeeze. He looked surprised, but didn’t pull away.

 

“Well, you can rest here so long as you can sleep though Rickon’s yelling.” She promised him and he raised an eyebrow.

 

“Yeah, he’s just like you fucking said.” He admitted, sitting up slightly without letting go of her hand. “Everything is. You’re a pretty fucking good artist, little bird.”

 

“Thank you.” She said quietly, heart thrilling at the nickname. It was a sign that everything was going to be alright and that they hadn’t changed too much for that at least.

 

“Ah, well.” He looked around, uncomfortable again, and Sansa thought of her sister, and how often Arya was more right than Sansa let herself believe. She gave a sad little smile, but she knew him. She understood him, the boy from Scotland with a ruined face and a sad past, who’d spent his life running and running, until he didn’t know anything else.

 

“Hey,” She gave his hand a little pat and he looked at her, grey eyes skeptical and wary. “I have something I want to tell you, ok?”

 

“Aye.” He closed his eyes and sat back, sighing heavily. “Let’s hear it then little bird. What do you want to chirp at me now?”

 

“I want you to stay here.” Sansa admitted, staring down at their hands. If he was looking at her, she didn’t know. It was easier for her to say these things without seeing how he would react to them. “I would like you to stay with me, here at Winterfell. I think this is where you belong, and it would make me really happy to have you with me, here, if you want to.

 

“But I know who you are Sandor, and I’m sorry if you ever thought I’d try to change you or ignore parts of you. That’s the thing. I don’t want to change you at all. So if you want to leave, that’s fine. I’m not going to keep you here. That’s not who I am. But I want you to know that you have a place here, at Winterfell, even if you don’t think that you do. I promise.

 

“If you want to run off and join Robb, I won’t stop you. If you want to take Arya off on her murder mission and get revenge, that’s fine too. And if you want to ride away and never look back, I swear that I won’t stop you or do anything that’s going to harm you.” Her voice broke slightly, but she plunged on with her speech. “I know who you are, I think I really do. And if you think you don’t belong here, I need you to know that I think that you belong with me, no matter where we are.”  

 

“Sansa,” He said, looking at her queerly like he’d never seen her before. “I have blood on my hands. You know this. I am… Dark. And you’re light, here. I promised you that I’d get you home. I did. You don’t owe me anything else, little bird.”

 

“And you don’t owe me anything.” Sansa took a deep breath. “But it’s not about what we owe each other Sandor, or what we think we do or what we should or whatever else it is. It’s about what you want, and what I want too I guess. I want you to stay here.”

 

“I don’t fit you.” He protested. “I don’t fit this, this life, this place…”

 

“My father was a killer, my brothers are killers, and now so is my sister.” Sansa declared frankly. “Killers built this house and have lived in it. You’re a biker. You’re a good man, no matter how much you think you’re not and fight about it. You are, even Arya thinks so and she’s a pain in the ass. I don’t know why you think you don’t belong here, Sandor.”

 

“Because you’re a Stark here.” He said desperately and she pulled back, glaring at him.

 

“I was a Stark when I was with Joffrey, I was a Stark on the road, I was a Stark with Jon. I am a Stark! I’ve always been a Stark! None of that has changed!”

 

“You don’t want me.” He said quietly, almost to himself and Sansa leaned forward for that she could rest her head on his chest, wanting to laugh at the utter absurdity of it all. Of her being the one to fight him to stay, to be the one to tell him that he was worthy of it all.

 

“Get some more sleep. Get something to eat. Do whatever.” Sansa lifted her head and looked his in the face so he could see exactly how deadly serious she was. “But I’m not going anywhere, and I hope that you won’t either, alright?”

 

“Aye.” He said, a little dazed and Sansa hoped that was an agreement of him staying. She rose, kissing his forehead. She wanted to go talk to Rickon, and get some sleep, and make sure that her mother was aware that Sandor was going to stay. She opened the door and a moment later, Lady and Nymeria bounded through and lept onto the bed. Sansa watched, pressing her fingers against her smile, as the dogs nuzzled him and his gruff face settled into delight. The wolves were always good judges of characters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all as a group as wild and wonderful and weird and utterly my humans, writing this fic and sending it out into the world has been like exposing a bit of my very vulnerable soul 
> 
> there are no thanks i can say that do justice to the immense gratitude i feel for each one of you who reads
> 
> if you want to see a different bit of my soul, i have a new Sansan story out - Minnesota, State Of... 
> 
> check it out or leave a review thanks darlings


	23. Little Bird, The Weepies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are so many of you good eggs here reading this plz know that the majority of you all (like 99.99%) make sharing this a joy. this is my favorite chapter, so I don't want to start it with annoyance and sass, but remember that most writers on here do this for free and out of love, so any criticism should be given kindly and with that in mind!!! (while reviews should be given freely and with gusto)
> 
> without further ado, i hope this chapter makes you all scream

Sandor would never forget his first days at Winterfell with the Stark family. It took him a solid 48 hours to readjust to the normal rhythms of life not lived on the run, but once he could stay awake for more than a couple hours and the ache in his shoulder didn’t seem so overwhelming, he was thrust head first into the day to day with Sansa and her siblings.

 

Bran was the night owl. Sandor had found him, several times, strumming an acoustic guitar at three in the morning, smoking a cigarette and drinking black coffee. Sandor liked Bran, liked that he was quiet and considerate, wise like a owl but wickedly funny. Bran had no time for biker wars- “and no legs to ride besides”- but he made good coffee and told Sandor that Sansa had been a ghost before he’d arrived.

 

Rickon was also a delight for him. He’d doubted some of Sansa’s claims to him about her youngest brother before, but once Sandor had met him, he’d grudgingly admitted that Rickon was all Sansa had said he’d be and more. Not more than a few days into Sandor’s stay, as he walked the grounds with Lady and Ghost, smoking and getting fresh air, Rickon had appeared from behind a garage, eyeing him critically. Shaggy was at his side, teeth bared but not growling.

 

“Rickon.” Sador had given him a little nod. “Shaggy.” Similar respect was given to the wolf. Rickon watched him, silent. Then he’d led him into the garage and Sandor had helped him retrieve a large piece of metal. Rickon had dragged it off into the woods, but when Sandor had made his way back into the house, everyone had seemed impressed with the story.

 

Brienne and Catelyn were wary of him, but he didn’t expect anything less from them. Catelyn, who shared so much of Sansa’s looks and mannerisms, gave him a restrained sort of respect. She’d thanked him for her daughters and offered him hospitality, though he sincerely doubted she would’ve done it if Sansa had not demanded it. Brienne, on the other hand, acted as though he was going to bomb Winterfell at any moment and made her distrust of him clear at every turn. He didn’t blame her.

 

Arya hadn’t reappeared since their arrival. Sansa had explained to him that, most likely, Arya was off in the woods with Pod and her pack, running wild until Robb gave her an outlet for her anger. She had reassured him that Arya would heed Robb’s orders, but Sandor had seen the look on her face when she’d killed Trant and he wasn’t so convinced.

 

Then there was Sansa herself, who was an angel personified. She was kind, caring, attentive without being overbearing, and respectful of his space. She got him clothes, she washed the few items that had survived the road, and made sure there was always food and tea. She was sweet and considerate, and reminded him every waking moment that he didn’t deserve her.

 

* * *

 

“Welcome.” Bran said sagely when Sandor walked into the kitchen at four in the morning. Sandor squinted at him. In the low light at the kitchen table, Bran was half buried behind a miniature mountain range, where books made up the peaks and valleys.  

 

“The fuck are you doing?” Sandor asked him, opening the cupboard to get a mug for some coffee. Bran held up a book about some space theory. “School?” He asked as he poured.

 

“Yeah, I have a paper due on this stuff.” Bran scratched his jaw, looking critically at a pile of books before drawing a slim one out.

 

“What, at 8am?” Sandor vaguely remembered staying up late one night to finish a paper. It had only happened once, and then he’d stopped caring.

 

“Nah, in three weeks.” Bran informed him and Sandor paused in his drink of coffee, looking at him over the rim with judging eyes. “It’s interesting though.”

 

“You should get more sleep.” Sandor declared and Bran took a sip of coffee, watching him in a slightly unnerving way. Sandor would never get use to the fact that Sansa’s eyes were so similar to her siblings. It was like she was watching him without being there.

 

“Why are you up then?” Bran asked him pointedly and Sandor thought about telling him the truth; that his dreams still had dead men in them. That he never saved Sansa in time, that he never found Arya, that wolves tore open his throat, that the water was burning again…

 

“Peaceful.” He settled on and Bran gave a nod of understanding. They lapsed into silence, until Shaggy suddenly padded into the kitchen out of the darkness.

 

“Shaggy.” Bran said softly, without lifting his eyes from the page. The wolf kept his green gaze on Sandor long enough that he debated if it was manly to stand on the counter, before the wolf swung his head to Bran and went to curl up at his feet beneath the table.

 

“Where does Rickon sleep?” Sandor asked suddenly. He rarely saw the boy, much less later in the day or early in the morning. He wasn’t sure that anyone slept in the main house besides Bran, Sansa, and Catelyn. Bran flipped the page then looked up at him.

 

“He has a cabin in the woods. Or he’ll sleep in one of the garages. Most of them have places to sleep for the club members that need a place to stay.” He explained. Sandor snorted, looking around at the massive ranch house that was meant to house the entire family.

 

“And Arya?”

 

“We think she sleeps with Pod.” Bran said, as if it were nothing. “Or at least that’s Sansa’s bet. We can’t ask Brienne to confirm it though, since it’s probably likely that she’s sneaking in. Otherwise there’s a cabin on the edge of the property that she stays at sometimes.”

 

“You Starks are the only people I know that own a massive fucking house and all spend your time off up some fucking trees.” Sandor commented, taking another drink of coffee. “Madness.”

 

“You’re a Stark now, welcome to the madness.” Bran remarked with those wide blue eyes and Sandor went for the door.

 

He had finished a second cup when the door to the porch opened. Lady bounded out first, coming for him eagerly. Sansa, a blanket draped around her shoulders and a steaming mug of tea in her hands, came next, already smiling. He wryly thought that she beat the sun in terms of brightness and moved over so that she could sit next to him on the swinging bench. She threw a bit of her blanket over his one knee, then looked out over the woods, raising the mug of tea and taking a careful sip.

 

“You should be getting more sleep.” He said gruffly and Sansa gave him a long side eye look, before resting her tea on her thigh.

 

“So should you.” She said breezily, watching as the sun came up over the massive sprawling woods. “I’ve always been an early riser.”

 

“You got a concussion.” He stated and a ghost of a smile flitted on her lips. “And you were shot, Sansa.”

 

“So were you.” She stated, turning to look at his shoulder. “How’s that feel by the way? We have an appointment with a doctor in town to see mine, and you’re coming with.”

 

“You have a doctor who’s not going to ask any questions about bullet wounds?” He asked her, raising an eyebrow and Sansa grinned.

 

“Yeah, Dr. Luwin. He’s a million years old. Delivered all of us. Stitched up dad, Jory, all the old guard. Now us. He’ll probably be proud of Arya for shooting you.” She explained and he shook his head, wondering what it must’ve been like growing up Stark.

 

“Fine.” He agreed. He wanted to know when it was going to feel better. Maybe seeing a doctor would help with getting himself back to rights.

 

“There’s something else I want to do while we’re in town.” Sansa said suddenly, turning to him. He raised an eyebrow and she produced the notebook. He glanced at her, surprised that she’d somehow managed to sneak it out of his room without him noticing. He’d kept it by his side since arriving back at Winterfell. He liked to flip through and see what memories would arise. Sansa chose a page at the end, showing him the drawing.

 

It was a delicate little bird, all soft lines and abstract. She’d taken care to add a little shading here and there, making it seem a bit more lifelike. He inspected it carefully, noting all the details she’d put into it before looking back up at her and raising an eyebrow.

 

“What do you want to do, little bird?”

 

“You’ll see.” With a mischievous smile she tore the paper from the notebook and handed it back to him. He thumbed through the pages, stopping at the one with the half girl, half wolf. He took a long look at it, then glanced at Sansa. With a slight smile, she tore it from the book and put it in her pocket. Then she stood and stretched, looking down at him.

 

“What?” He  asked and she broke into a smile, offering him her hand.

 

“C’mon. New day. Let’s go face the world.” She stated and even if he had to shake his head at her, he still rose and followed her inside. Showering was still a cumbersome process but by the time he was done and dressed, Sansa was ready as well. She stood in the kitchen, munching on a piece of toast and reading the paper absentmindedly. He smiled at her.

 

She was wearing leggings with her thick cable knit sweater pulled over the top of them. The sweater hit just above her knees, but she’d cased her legs in tall boots and thick socks that nearly topped her knees. Her hair was still damp from her shower, and he knew from experience it would take hours to dry fully. She looked up and smiled, but before he could so much as take a breath, Brienne appeared, a permanent scowl on her face.

 

“Well?” She asked, like he was doing her a personal injustice. “We going then?”

 

“I’ll ride with Sandor.” Sansa said brightly and Brienne turned to look at her in disbelief.

 

“I think not - you were shot! You had a severe concussion and--”

 

“I’ll wear a helmet.” Sansa said innocently, reaching for Sandor’s arm. “C’mon Brienne, I’m more likely to hurt myself on the stairs than I am on his bike. He’s not going to ride in a cage anyways.”

 

“He’d do it because I said.” Brienne said sullenly, but Sansa was already beaming, her fight won. He wondered if anyone ever told her no.

 

“We can meet you there.” Sansa promised, pulling Sandor out the front door. A moment later she was bounding down the steps, running for the garage where he’d stored his bike. She looked back at him, grinning, and for a second all the breath left his lungs. She was so fucking beautiful. He’d known it, when he was watching her run across the desert barefoot and angry. But the sort of tangible beauty here, where her happiness seeped out of every inch of her fair skin was going to stop his heart one day.

 

“Sansa, I…” He trailed off, realizing that he had no idea what he was going to say and she smiled, waiting sweetly in front of his bike.

 

“Shall we?” She was all smiles and giddy happiness. It wasn’t until he was climbing on the bike and her arms snaked around him that it occurred to him that she might be excited for this. Riding on the bike with him. Tentatively, he reached down and squeezed her knee. She rewarded him with a tight squeeze around his ribcage and his heart soared as he pushed the throttle.

 

The drive into town took longer than he would’ve suspected. Sansa’s family had built Winterfell as a retreat in the woods, far from where humanity sprawled. Sansa gave him directions, keeping them ahead of Brienne. He looked at the sights as he drove, trying to take in the town that raised her. He passed a small high school, a howling wolf on the front of it. He passed a pizza place, then a chain burger place. He passed playgrounds with busy children and groups of mothers bunched together.

 

Evidence of her last name was everywhere. The stores that bore it. The way that everyone looked up the sound of a bike. This was Robb Stark’s home, and though he didn’t know what sort of relationship the club had with the town, he noticed that it certainly seemed that the wolves were well liked, and the Starks held in high esteem. He wondered what Sansa would say as they pulled up to a nondescript office building.

 

“This it?” He asked as they climbed off. Sansa nodded, watching as Brienne pulled into the stall next to them, still scowling.

 

“See, totally fine.” Sansa said brightly, once Brienne was out and opening the door to the office. The look on Sansa’s protector’s face might beg to differ, but Sandor decided not to press it. They walked into the office, where a younger man greeted them and offered them a place to sit in the waiting room. Sansa sat, utterly at ease, picking up and flipping through a magazine.

 

Sandor sat next to her, a little uneasy. He didn’t trust that whoever this doctor was wasn’t going to ask questions, ones he didn’t want to answer. Why was he shot? Who shot him? Why hadn’t he gone to a doctor sooner? Who took care of him when he was first shot? Why were there so many other scars that covered his body like a macabre tapestry?

 

“Sansa.” An old man, nearly hunched over and with a long grey beard, beamed at her from the doorway to the back. His eyes, though set in an ancient face, were bright and clear. They danced, and when Sansa rose, he opened his arms. Sansa had to bend slightly to give him a hug, but she straightened up and gestured to Sandor.

 

“Doctor Luwin, this is Sandor.” She said cheerfully and before Sandor could ask her wisdom in using his name so openly, the doctor was before him, taking a hand he didn’t offer and shaking it with gusto.

 

“Nice to meet you, nice to meet you. Sansa has told me all about you. Well come along then son, let’s see what kind of shot our girl is.” He was pulling him back and while Brienne remained in the waiting room, Sansa followed him without hesitation.  

 

“I, uh…” Sandor hesitated, but Sansa was already talking.

 

“I still can’t believe she did it. Oh, I was so mad I thought I wasn’t going to speak to her for a month, and then she had to go off and scare me half to death.” She informed the elderly doctor, like they were sophomore girls in the lunchroom. Sandor stared at her, shocked.

 

“Well, she’s always been something of a spitfire.” Luwin was saying wisely, leading Sandor into an exam room while Sansa huffed.

 

“Being a bit of a spitfire means that she puts shit in my room and throws eggs at her teachers’ cars. It does not mean shooting Sandor.” She said stoutly and Sandor snorted despite himself. Sansa grinned faintly, sitting down in the chairs against the wall.

 

"That's a fair point, my dear." Luwin chuckled. 

 

“Thanks for seeing him by the way.” She remarked as Sandor sat on the exam table and after a moment of hesitation, shed his shirt. “I know you’re busy with everyone else.”

 

“Nonsense.” Luwin said smartly, going to get gloves and thin glasses he could perch at the end of his nose. “A friend of yours is a friend of us all. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”

 

“Very much so.” Sansa gave Sandor a smile that made him feel warm all over, and so he looked resolutely at the painting of a grim landscape rather than look at her.  

 

Luwin probed and prodded the bullet wound, tutting and mumbling things. He made Sandor lift his arm, rotate it this way and that, nodding and humming. Sansa watched all in silence, her eyes never leaving Sandor’s. He wondered how the hell he’d forgotten how intense her gaze could be, when she turned the full power of it on him. He was just thinking that he would have to kiss her, just to see if the connection was more intense, when the sound of Luwin’s gloves snapping off brought him back.

 

“Well, Talisa sure did her job well.” He remarked and Sandor looked at Sansa out of the corner of his eyes, wondering if she knew. Sansa paused, looking up at him with furrowed eyebrows.

 

“Who?”

 

“The young lady that Robb has taken up with in the south.” Luwin explained, jotting notes down and then handing them to Sansa. “She’s sent me back a few northman all stitched up. Nice work too.”

 

“Really?” Sansa’s gaze was locked on Sandor, clearly ready to grill him for any bit of information he knew . “Interesting.”

 

“Yes, now you.” Luwin said, gently pushing Sandor off the table and patting it. Sansa rose, pulling off her sweater without hesitation, rolling her tank top up so Luwin could inspect the healing wound on her side. Even seeing it made Sandor want to be sick; not because he wasn’t well accustomed to the sight of such things, but the fact that it was a reminder of how close he’d came to losing her.

 

He slipped out while Luwin informed Sansa that while the scar wouldn’t be grievous, it would still scar nonetheless. He found himself next to stiff backed Brienne, pretending to read a magazine and conceal her looks of disgust at him. He sat, quiet and polite, intending to not say a word until Sansa came out. Then Brienne lowered her magazine and spoke.

 

“She’s suffered so much, you know.”

 

“Aye.” He bristled. “I’m well fucking aware, thank you.”

 

“I’m not trying to yell at you.” Brienne’s gaze flickered to the hallway, checking to see if Sansa was going to emerge. “I just mean that she’s a good human, and it hasn’t been easy for her. But it’s gotten better since you’ve gotten here and I wanted you to know that.”

 

“Why?” He asked her, suspicious and Brienne gave a little huff, like she resented the fact that she had to say the words.  

 

“Because clearly she cares for you and even if I don’t know the hell why, I think you should consider that when you go to leave.”

 

“Who says I’m leaving?” He muttered. He meant it too, despite his every intention not to. He would stay, if that was Sansa’s desire, and it terrified him slightly. Here she was, this slip of a girl, and she held more sway over him than anything since the military. Perhaps even more than that. He was scared that if he checked, he would find it to be true.

 

“Well, when you do, do it gently.” Brienne said it almost like an order. “She deserves the best, Clegane, and not more pain.”

 

“Aye,” He agreed, but couldn’t get much else out. Sansa came down the hallway, still animatedly talking to the doctor, smiling when she saw both of them.

 

“Are we ready to go?” She asked Sandor, with wide, sweet eyes.

 

“Aye.” He looked to Brienne, who gave a curt nod.

 

“Ah, Brienne.” Sansa checked her phone, frowning. “I think something’s wrong with Rickon. Arya just texted me and said that mom asked for you to come home and check it out.”

 

“Really?” Brienne dug in her pocket for her phone, pulling it out with a frown. “I don’t have anything. Are you sure something’s happening?”

 

“Yeah.” Sansa said, nodding seriously. “You should go, check it out. Sandor can get me home safe, don’t worry about it.”

 

“I…” The look on Brienne’s face said very clearly what she thought about Sansa’s safety with him, but then relented and nodded. “Alright. Be safe. Call if you have any trouble at all, ok?”

 

“Of course.” Sansa opened the door for her and Brienne rushed for the car. Sansa caught his arm as Brienne sped away and he looked down at her, skeptical.

 

“What did you do, little bird?”

 

“Surprise.” Grinning, she pulled him towards his bike. “C’mon, I can give you directions. Let’s go.” She climbed on the back of his bike and pinched his ribs. He drove across town, trying to figure out where they were going, but it wasn’t until they’d parked directly in front of a tattoo parlour did he turn around to look at her with a mixture of admiration and admonishment.

 

“What are we doing here?” He asked her, once he’d parked. She gave him a long look that clearly communicated the level of stupidity she thought he was at. She walked inside and he followed, glancing over his shoulder and waiting for Brienne to emerge from the pavement and scold him for even taking Sansa to such a place. The bell above the door chimed as he walked in.

 

“Sansa!” The man behind the desk looked up, grinning. Sandor was momentarily surprised; the man was nearly as large as him, though not in the same shape. He was as tall as Sandor, and wider, covered in tattoos with a big smile and open arms. Sansa was embracing him and Sandor felt all his guts twist in hot jealousy, stepping forward involuntarily.

 

“Hodor, this is Sandor.” She explained, once she stepped back and the man, Hodor, grinning and offered Sandor his hand.

 

“Nice to meet you. Hodor.” He said needlessly and Sandor gave a grunt, trying to break the man’s hand as he shook it. Hodor remained serene, unbothered.

 

“Hodor does all of my family’s tattoos.” Sansa told him and Sandor looked around the shop, taking in the photos and drawings. He had to admit, they were pretty impressive. He’d seen glimpses of Arya’s tattoos and they were well done.

 

“Finally got something you’re ready to put on your skin?” Hodor asked Sansa, who nodded. Sandor looked at her in surprise.

 

“What?” He asked, watching as she pulled out the piece of paper and handed it to Hodor. “Sansa, are you sure that you want…” He trailed off, seeing what Hodor was looking at. The little bird drawing. He looked at it, flabbergasted, then back up at Sansa, who was grinning.

 

“I’ll want to add some shading, tweak these lines,” Hodor was muttering, but Sandor couldn’t really hear him. He was too busy gazing at Sansa and wondering where such a girl had came from. “But overall it’s beautiful, Sansa. Where do you want it?”

 

“Here.” Sansa shrugged off her oversized sweater, gesturing to the little hollow of her collarbone. Hodor nodded, going to ready his tools, and Sansa sat atop the table like it was nothing, utterly relaxed. Sandor automatically took a place at her side, holding her hand and watching as Hodor mixed ink and sketched. Sansa simply hummed, looking around with interest.

 

“Are you sure?” He asked her lowly one last time as Hodor gently applied the sketch to her skin. Sansa looked at her, blue eyes dancing, a smirk curving her lips up.

 

“So very sure.” She muttered, so soft it was almost tender. Then Hodor stepped back and appraised his work critically.

 

“Take a look. Let me know if that’s where you want it.” He ordered and Sansa rose, going to the mirror and inspecting herself. The little bird was nestled into her skin, small, delicate, and safe. Sandor stared at it, watching as Sansa twisted and turned, making sure she liked it.

 

“It’s perfect.” She declared finally, sitting back down. Hodor took up his gun, giving her a stern look that seemed out of place on him.

 

“It’s going to hurt. You can say fuck as much and as loudly as you want. But don’t you dare fucking move.” He informed her.

 

“I’ll be fine.” Sansa took Sandor’s hand, giving it a slight squeeze. “I’ve been watching people get these since I was like 10.”

 

“Watching and getting are two very different things, little bird.” Sandor muttered as Hodor chuckled. A moment later the hum of the gun filled the shop, and Sansa closed her eyes, leaning back. When the needle pressed to the pale skin, her grip on him tightened, but she said or did nothing. The whole time Hodor worked she kept her eyes shut, as though steadfastly working to remain still. Hodor watched her, and Sandor watched Hodor, as the art began to unfold on Sansa’s skin.

 

“Almost there, almost done.” Hodor would mutter occasionally, whenever Sansa’s fingertips trembled, or her mouth would twitch. Sandor rubbed her arm, watching with fascination her smooth skin was smeared with black and red, and beneath that blossomed her bird. Sometimes he remembered his role to comfort her, and would give her an encouraging pat.

 

“Jesus fuck.” Slipped out of her lips once, when Hodor backed off to get more ink. She cracked her eyes, and Sandor saw that a couple tears were remaining unshed. “Does it always hurt this fucking bad?”

 

“Not when you pick somewhere less sensitive.” Sandor assured her. “Crazy fucking bird, getting it done there first. What were you thinking?”

 

“Clearly I wasn't.” Sansa remarked before groaning and shutting her eyes when Hodor came at her again, gun whirling.

 

It didn’t seem to take that long to Sandor, but he was sure that Sansa would disagree. When Hodor finally stopped the gun and set it down, smiling, he saw the way her shoulders dropped and the tension seemed to rush out of her all at once. She opened her eyes and dabbed at the tears quickly, sitting up a little straighter and looking between them, a bit dazed.

 

“Well?” Hondor held up a mirror so that she could gaze in it. For a second she was silent and still. Then a wide smile split her face and she looked up at the tattoo artist, beaming.

 

“It’s perfect. Thank you.” She brought one finger up to touch it before winching.

 

“It’ll be tender for a couple days.” Sandor warned her. “Don’t touch it, and you’ll be alright. Do you have lotion at home?”

 

“See I don’t need to teach you how to take care of them.” Hodor grinned before turning to Sandor. “What about you, my man?”

 

“What?” Sandor looked at him, as Sansa continued to admire her new tattoo. After a second she lowered the mirror and nudged him.

 

“You can get one.” She offered. “Hodor cleared his morning for us. I thought I should have three minutes of freedom before my mom knew I get a tattoo.”

 

“I don’t have anything…” He trailed off, remembering the design that Sansa had tucked into her pocket this morning. He’d asked her once, to draw him a tattoo. He looked at her, a smile fighting a disapproving glare, and in the end a helpless sort of grin won. Sansa grinned back and pulled the drawing out, handing it to Hodor, who seemed unbothered.

 

“Oh, this is fucking sick.” He told Sansa. “You’re better than you were even before college. Keep it up, I’ll offer you a place at the shop.”

 

“Maybe.” Sansa laughed, but Sandor was shivering at the idea of her giving him a tattoo. Hodor glanced at him, eyebrows raised.

 

“Anything you want changed, my man?”

 

“Make her eyes blue.” Sandor decided, watching Sansa. She flushed pink, but said nothing.

 

He decided it would go on his forearm, opposite the shoulder than contained the dogs. He felt like it would strike a balance and that was fitting. Sansa sat near him and chatted with Hodor as he worked up a sketch. Sandor listened to them share stories quietly, sitting in the chair and enjoying the fact that Sansa’s hand rested, ever so lightly, on his knee.

 

When Hodor put the design on his skin and got approval, Sansa left off talking with him and switched to telling Sandor of all the tattoos she’d seen over the years. She told him about the massive piece that covered Jory’s chest, and the first tattoo Jon had gotten; a tiny bow and arrow on his ankle at 14 that he hid from their mother for 5 months. She told him about the time Robb had gotten his back piece and ruined his only good pair of sheets. Or, with a sad, trembling smile, of when her father had gotten all their birthdays in heavy roman numerals down his thick biceps and Sansa had traced hers.

 

He liked getting tattoos. At this point the pain was no surprise to him, not anymore. It was like an old friend, something that never failed to remind him of the days when he was young and stupid and more human that he was now. He sat and watched as the tattoo came together, Sansa never ceasing her little stories and tidbits, occasionally spurred along by Hondor.

 

It took a couple hours, and Sansa emerged with snacks from the back of the shop, making Hodor protest before reluctantly handing them over. Sansa fed him bits of trail mix and granola, sporadically getting up and wandering around the shop. Whenever she did, Hodor would catch Sandor’s eyes and grin knowingly, like he suspected what Sandor was beginning to fear.

 

Just when Sandor was thinking that he was going to need a break to take a piss, Hodor leaned back and gave him arm one last pass with the damp rag. Sandor went to look at it, but Sansa beat him to it, bending forward with a little gasp. He guessed, when she looked up at him with eyes that shone, that she was very pleased with the final product. He looked down and couldn’t help himself.

 

“Holy fuck.” He remarked, despite himself. Hodor did good work, he had to admit it. The design covered most of his forearm, and each detail was lovingly crafted. The fur of the wolf looked like it was going to ripple in the winds, and the girl stared out, her look somehow wise and haunting all at once. The lines were beautiful and flawlessly done, even with the blood and swelling that was slowly gathering.

 

“I always take that as a good sign.” Hodor told Sansa, pulling off his gloves with a loud snap. “Usually they’re pretty happy when they say that.”

 

“Well, you know that you do better work than anyone else.” Sansa commented, giving him a one armed hug. “Can’t say thank you enough.”

 

“Just excited to finally get you in the chair.” Hodor grinned. “At this rate, all I have left is Rickon.”

 

“Wait, does Bran--” Sansa started to ask, then stopped herself. “Never mind. I don’t even want to know.”

 

“Good idea.” Hodor patted her shoulder while carefully wrapping Sandor’s tattoo. “You’ll be back now, now that you have one. They’re addicting.”

 

“I don’t know why anyone would be addicted to pain.” Sansa frowned and pulled her sweater on so that it hid her tattoo. Hodor just gave a shrug.

 

“How much do I owe you?” Sandor asked, reaching for his wallet. He still had some money left over from the run, but Hodor waved a hand.

 

“First one’s on the house for Wolves.” He remarked, winking at Sansa and cleaning up. Sansa blew him a kiss and Sandor didn’t bother to protest that he wasn’t a Wolf. It would seem like a lie at this point, and he didn’t want to keep lying to himself or others.

 

“Thank you, Hodor!” Sansa called, taking Sandor’s hand and pulling him towards the day. Still a little startled at the words, Sandor went without protest. Sansa caught him outside and once the door shut, looked up at him with a concerned expression. “I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. I didn’t know he’d think you were a Wolf and if it bothers you, I can correct him, but--”

 

“Sansa.” He found himself with a hand over her lips and one in her hair, shushing her gently. “Don’t worry about it. I think… I think he’s right.”

 

“Really?” Sansa’s eyes were wide, and oh so hopeful. It made him want to laugh, it was so ridiculous. Here she was, hoping that he, Sandor Clegane, Scottish cunt of epic proportion, was going to stay with her. It was absolute madness, and yet so true.

 

“I’m not going to leave you, little bird.” His fingertips traced lightly over her new ink and he thought her smile was going to burn him.

 

“Alright.” She was rushing towards his bike, bringing him with her. “Then there’s something I want to show you. Come on.”

 

“Where?” He asked, and she gestured to the bike. Resigning, he got on and left the direction giving up to her. He wondered if it would always be so.

 

She took him out of town, down a road through the trees that wound them higher. They were a little too late for the glory of fall; now the leaves were falling and browning. Sansa didn’t seem to notice or care; she was practically vibrating with excitement behind him. He had half convinced himself she was going to drive them off a cliff when she jerked for him to pull over in a tiny dirt patch that served as a rudimentary parking lot. She was off the bike before he’d even let go of the throttle.

 

“Come on, come on.” She called, gesturing for him to hurry up. Grumbling, he followed her. She took his through the trees and then they were on a cliff after all, looking out over the town. Cars drove beneath them, people went about their business, oblivious to the fact that they were being watched from on high. Sandor stared at it, surprised at how pretty it was.

 

“Nice view.” He remarked, sitting down on a boulder. Sansa grinned and wrapped her arms around herself, swaying from side to side.

 

“Right?” She kicked a rock. “We came up here in high school. Drank. Smoked. Whatever. Just kids. All the moms thought someone was going to fall off the edge and break their backs.”

 

“And did anyone?” He raised an eyebrow and she laughed, coming to sit next to him, drawing her knees up to her chest.

 

“No.” Her eyes were darting, taking in all the sights. “Got my first kiss up here though. Don’t even remember who to anymore. Just knew that this was a good place. Safe place.” She looked up at him with big eyes, smiling slightly, and took his hand.

 

“Good place.” He repeated and she nodded, her checks going pink, and he didn’t know he believed what was going to happen until it did. Sansa leaned forward, her hand carefully going to his good shoulder while the other rested on his waist. Then she was kissing him and he wasn’t sure how it happened, only that the only that mattered anymore was that it had.

 

He leaned in and his hand found that copper hair, the shade that he was sure was etched into his heart by now, and kissed her back. He wasn’t, for once, concerned that his scarred face was going to be off-putting to her. He wasn’t worried that he was too ugly, too mangled, for her to truly want to be kissing him. He didn’t fear that this was all for pity or money.

 

He knew Sansa. He knew her when she was sad, when she was scared, when she was wild and furious and wonderful. He knew her, knew how much she loved, how honest and true she was. He knew exactly what sort of girl she was, and that was the kind of girl who would never do this. More importantly he knew himself, and every fiber of his body was melting, fusing with her, because nothing before this had ever been so right.

 

He never wanted to let her go. He never wanted her to pull away. He never wanted, for a second, to lose her lips on his, her hands on him, the overwhelming sense of her, simply her, that seeped into his very bones. He tried not to be consumed by, to be taken in by everything that she was, but it was useless. He thought he’d feared the flames. He didn’t realize that he desired them.

 

He held her closer and closer, torn between trying to memorize the shape and taste of her lips, how well they fit with his, and letting himself go entirely and never having a coherent thought in his mind again. He was just trying to note the more subtle details of her when she pulled away and the air rushed back in. He wanted to cry out at the loss of her, the assault of unwanted space.

 

“I’m sorry, I…” She trailed off, more than a little breathless, still holding his face tightly, eyes searching his like he was a book. “Did you… Want…”

 

“Yes.” He said reverently, trying to pull her closer. He practically gathered her in his lip, but that still wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough. “Yes, fuck yes, Sansa, I want you. I want you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i know it seems like we're winding down but i promise there is so much more. i have treasured this journey with you all and I could not ask for a better bunch of yahoos. 
> 
> LOVE Y'ALL reviews are better than sex tbh


	24. Are You With Me, nilu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit. here we are. almost a complete year after beginning to write this, and this is the second to last chapter. I'm sure I'll have more to say next week, but right now, all I have is thanks. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Sansa had few regrets in life. She regretted the time when she was 11 and tried to give herself bangs, resulting in a disaster mullet that lingered for a good six months. She regretted sneaking out of the house when she was 16 and got so grounded she had to miss out on a concert and the homecoming dance, two social events that set the tone for the year. She could think of a few other things, moments and instances where she would change it if she could. But she knew that she would never regret kissing Sandor.

 

Kissing him was better than alcohol or sweets or a good night's sleep. It was like the best home cooked meal mixed with Christmas morning and seeing your best friend after ages apart. It was familiar and exciting, warm and real, mixed with the thrill of not knowing what was going to happen when they left the perfect, sweet little bubble they’d created.

 

Sansa was trying to be mindful of his bad shoulder and their new tattoos and the fact that they were on a boulder that was not conducive to making out. Her last kiss here had been a scared, sheepish peck, not this, and while she was thrilled that it was finally happening, she was wondering if it might have been wiser to choose some place that would’ve made things a little easier.

 

“Little bird…” He kept muttering and sighing like he didn’t believe this was happening and each time he said it, Sansa’s heart thumped painfully hard. She wanted to keep drawing him in, never letting him or this perfect feeling fade away.

 

“I…” Sansa had no words for him, so she tried to convey to him all that she felt with her kisses. That she felt safe. Beautiful. Strong. Loved. Smart. Different, and in the best kind of way. She wanted to be with him. That it felt right in her soul.

 

“Are you sure?” Suddenly, he was the one pulling back, worry in his grey eyes and Sansa was desperately hanging onto him, keeping him close.

 

“Yes.” She couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “Yes, god, yes, of course. I just… I’m so happy, I’m just so fucking happy, I…”

 

“God.” He leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together. Sansa saw his lips twitching furiously and wondering if he was fighting down a smile. She kissed him again, for no other reason than because she could and she wanted to.

 

“Should we…” She muttered, once they’d both drawn back for a moment of breath. “I don’t know, maybe talk about this?”

 

“Always with the chirping, little bird.” He pressed a kiss to her ear, pulling her close to his chest. She snuggled in for a moment, then her stomach rumbled so loudly it was like a storm rolling in. She laughed, but Sandor only looked at her with concern.

 

"What?" She asked coyly.

 

“Are you hungry?” He demanded. “Do you need to eat? We should get lunch. What are you hungry for then? Where should we go?”

 

“Calm down.” She giggled, pressing another kiss to his scarred cheek. “I’m fine, just hungry. We can grab some pizza and take it home, how’s that sound?”

 

“Fine.” He grunted and they both rose. For a second, Sansa pressed her back to Sandor’s chest, looking out over her old town. She wasn’t sure if she was just being dramatic, but it suddenly felt like everything had changed, and would never be the same.

 

“Thanks.” She whispered to nothing at all. The wind, the trees, the earth, the sky. It didn’t matter; something older and wiser than her surely heard. She held tight to Sandor as they left the cliffside.

 

In town, Sansa took him to the oldest, best pizzeria. She put in her order, knowing from heart what her family would want, before showing Sandor the arcade upstairs that they’d played in so often as children. She ended up tangled up with him in a dark corner, giggling shamelessly when her name was called out questioningly by the delivery boy trying to find her.

 

Getting several pizzas home on the back of a bike was more than a little challenging and by the time they pulled up to the old ranch house, Sansa was breathless with laughter and Sandor wasn’t far behind her. Both Brienne and her mother stood outside, arms crossed with identical looks of disapproval on their faces. Arya and Pod lounged nearby, watching in amusement. Rickon said nothing, just took the pizzas from her and disappeared inside the house, leaving them to face the womanly wrath alone.

 

“There was no emergency.” Brienne stated, when Sansa looked up her innocently.

 

“No?” Sansa pretended to be surprised. “My mistake. I just assumed Arya was always causing emergencies, and you’d come home to find one.”

 

“Hey.” Arya gave her an affronted look, but didn’t deny it.   

 

“Sansa,” Her mother said sharply. “Brienne is here for your protection. To keep you safe. To make sure nothing happens to you and she can’t do that if you’re sending her off on a wild goose chase.”

 

“I think I’m well protected enough.” Sansa said fiercely, tangling her fingers with Sandor’s and watched as her mother’s mouth became a thinning line.

 

“Fine.” She said darkly, and swept inside. Sansa and Sandor had only made it up the first couple steps when Arya drawled,

 

“So you two fuck yet?”

 

Sansa felt Sandor stiffen next to her, but she was well practiced with her sister by now and simply leaned back, making direct eye contact with Arya, before glancing at Pod once.

 

“Have you?”

 

Then she pulled Sandor inside, ignoring the spluttering Pod and raging Arya.

 

Catelyn and Brienne ate the pizza grudgingly, then quickly retreated. Sansa assumed it was to plot how to separate herself and Sandor, but she remained unbothered. Pod, red to the tips of his toes, stole a pizza silently and departed. Sansa wondered if she’d wake up to a frog in her bed like she had when they were kids. Bran and Rickon were quickly turned into her and Sandor's allies, bribed and bought with pizza.

 

Bran obviously knew something was up, with his sly little smile and his raised eyebrows. Rickon remained blissfully unaware, scarfing down as much pizza as he could. Sandor watched him in amusement, occasionally asking him a couple questions but mostly remaining silent. Sansa kept one of her hands rest on Sandor’s thigh, her thumb rubbing back and forth.

 

Sandor went with Rickon that afternoon and Sansa decided to paint, grabbing her canvas and sheet, setting up in Bran’s library as he bent over a book, occasionally glancing up at her. It wasn’t until she’d shed her sweater to have better range of motion that he put the book down and cleared his throat to get her attention. She turned, eyebrows raised, and he looked pointedly at her new tattoo.

 

“You just wanna really hit mom when she’s down, don’t you?” He asked casually, and Sansa glared at him, eyes narrowed.

 

“It’s not like that, you brat.”

 

“It’s not?” He pretended to be overly surprised. “Edgy new boyfriend? New tattoo? Rebelling? Seems like it to me, Sanny.”

 

“Are you remembering that we’re children of bikers?” Sansa pointed out. “That our brother is completely covered in tattoos, runs a biker gang, and is literally at war with rivals who kidnapped and held me hostage for weeks on end? How is Sandor more edgy than any of the Umber boys?”

 

“Umber boys would have the decency to be respectful of mom to the point of fear.” Bran reminded her, going back to his book. “And they’d probably still pick the club over you. He wouldn’t pick anything over you, Sansa, and that makes him dangerous.”

 

“Oh.” A little dumbfounded, Sansa gave an absent minded swipe at the canvas. She had no idea what to think about that.

 

She was packing up the colors and cleaning her brushes when Arya came storming in, Pod hot on her heels. Sansa was about to ask what the hell they were doing when she saw Brienne’s car disappear down the driveway and sighed. She wondered what Arya would use to threaten her into silence and if any of those options would include bodily harm.

 

“You can’t tell mom.” Arya announced, the instant Sansa looked up.

 

“Can’t tell mom what?” Sansa asked, feigning ignorance and Arya looked ready to combust, but Pod touched her shoulder and she seemed to quiet.

 

“Sansa,” He said, in his calm measured tone. “We would appreciate it if you didn’t tell your mother or Brienne about this. We don’t feel that people need to know quite yet.”

 

“And Bran?” Sansa jerked her thumb at her brother, who remained unbothered with his book. “Does he already know or just not count?”

 

“He already knows.” Arya said dismissively. “Bran knows everything.”

 

“It’s true.” Bran agreed with a little nod, not looking up from his pages. “I really do know everything. It’s me you should fear.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, ok, whatever.” Arya waved him off. “Point is, if they know, they’re going to fucking meddle. Good luck keeping them out of yours now that they know.”

 

“Stop. It won’t be that bad.” Sansa said dismissively and Arya cocked an eyebrow, looking at Pod over her shoulder. He bit his lip and gave a half shrug.

 

“Tell that to Robb. Mom went apeshit when she found out about Talisa. She’s having some control issues and you’re going to be next if you don’t clear out.” Arya informed her and Sansa narrowed her eyes, but Bran and Pod both looked to be in agreeance, and Sansa knew they, at the very least, wouldn’t lie to her maliciously. Then she sighed, looking to Arya.

 

“Alright. I won’t say anything, I promise. But how am I going to keep mom from fucking everything up with him?” She felt a bit of desperation slipping in. She just got him and if she lost him now, she didn’t have a clue what she was going to do.

 

“You’re probably too late.” Arya stated frankly. “The best thing you can do now is just make sure that he hangs on to you no matter what happens.”

 

“He fucking adores you, San.” Bran stated. “There’s no way in hell he’d ever give you up. I can see it in his eyes when he looks at you.”

 

“Yeah, it’s gross as hell.” Arya stated then did a double take. “Wait, did you get a fucking tattoo?”

 

“I need to plan.” Sansa stated, clutching her painting supplies to her chest. “I’m not going to lose him again to whatever bullshit the club pulls, I will not.”

 

“Good luck.” Arya said, and it appeared sincere. Sansa nodded after a second, and went to her bedroom as quickly as she could. She sat down on her bed, mind racing, taking a deep breath and trying to think logically and strategically. She knew her mother, and her brother, and she thought that she knew Sandor too. She just had to think what she was going to do to make sure that she was alright, and so was Sandor. She was so caught in her thoughts she didn’t realize someone was standing in her doorway.

 

“Sansa.” Sandor said softly, and she looked up, startled. He filled the whole doorway but his expression was tender. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing.” She said, too quickly, and he simply looked pointedly at her hands. She’d practically burnished her ring with her relentless spinning. She was still, looking up at him.

 

“Is it… Me?” He asked her quietly and she leapt off her bed for him, clasping his face tightly. She looked up at him, shaking her head.

 

“No. God no, never.” She promised and he bent for a kiss. She stretched up and kissed him back, hard before she stepped back. “We’re just… I’m scared.”

 

“What? Why?” He brushed her hair back. “Who is it?”

 

“No one you can touch, love.” She told him with a little smile. Her defender, always there to make sure that she was safe.

 

“Then what?” He held her, concerned and Sansa rested her head on his chest for a long moment before raising it to look at him.

 

“We’re going to have a talk that we shouldn’t have to have, except I live with an insane family and an insane life.” She said wryly.

 

“Alright, let’s have it then.” He said stoutly.

 

“Not here.” Sansa’s heart swelled. He was so perfect, it killed her. But what she was going to ask him needed to be done somewhere special. “Come on.”

 

She took him to the most sacred place she could think of, grabbing a blanket as she led him out the back door and across the yard. Into the woods they went, Lady and Nymeria joining them. Sansa knew that Rickon was likely nearby, but didn’t feel the need to call out for him. This moment was between herself and Sandor alone, and with the forest.

 

“What…” He trailed off when they entered the clearing of trees. Sansa smiled faintly. This place never failed to inspire astonishment in people.

 

It was a ring of trees, a little open meadow in the center. The leaves beneath their feet were a faded red, lackluster from their previously glory. But it was the trees themselves that commanded the most attention, as each had a face carved into them. It would seem kitschy, except for the fact that these faces seemed wild and terrible instead of benevolent.

 

“Osha’s people carved them here.” She told him, thinking about the stories that Osha told them, the legends that she shared. “It was my father’s favorite place. We scattered his ashes here.” She thought about that day, about the anguish she’d felt, and before she could feel her world caving back in again, Sandor’s hand was on the small of her back.

 

“Little bird.” He whispered and she took a deep breath before wrapping the blanket around the two of them and giving him a wobbly smile.  

 

“I know. I know. It’s ok.” She promised him, drawing herself into his warmth. It radiated off of him. “I promise I’m ok. I just.. I needed it to be here.”

 

“What to be here?” he asked her, and she saw that the worry was creeping back in again, the way his eyes widened with uncertainty.

 

“A question I didn’t want to ask you for a little bit longer.” She admitted. “A long time, actually. Certainly not a couple hours after you kissed me. Before we even decided what this is. If we’re dating, or if I’m just something… You’re just something… It doesn’t matter.”

 

“Sansa, what is it?” He asked urgently.

 

“Robb is going to take you away.” Sansa told him, and it was then that the tears fell and her words and fears spilled out. “Robb, my mother, the club. They’re going to take you away because you’re not a Wolf and you’re not one of us and they think it’s for the best but they don’t understand that I need you. And you’re the best thing to ever happen to me. And I adore you, and I want you to stay with me, but you aren’t the kind who stays and makes it work and I don’t…”

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He cut her off, shushing her and trying to soothe her. Sansa clung to him, trying to memorize everything about him. “Why are they going to take me away?”

 

“Robb will say it’s because he can’t trust you. Mom will say it’s because you’re not good enough. They think they know best, Sandor, and every time I have to do something that doesn’t fit in with their perfect vision of who I should, I have to fight for it.” She held him close. “I’m going to fight for you, but I wanted to make sure that it was what you wanted.”

 

“You’re not making any sense.” He held her face with his large palms, his rough skin catching her smooth cheeks. “Slow down, explain this to me.”

 

“Ok.” She took a deep breath. “The club comes first. You know that, right? The club always comes first. It’s more important than anything else.”

 

“But you’re not in the club.” He protested and Sansa gave him a look.

 

“Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean that I’m any less a Stark, Sandor. What’s between my legs doesn’t cancel out my last name.”

 

“Ok, well,” Sandor seemed conflicted between laughter and chiding her. “You don’t have a patch on your back. Who you’re with is none of their fucking business.”

 

“It is if it’s someone like you.” Sansa said desperately, trying to make him understand and not cry. It seemed she was only to get to do one.

 

“So you don’t want to be with me?” He pulled away from her slightly and Sansa tried her hardest to pull him back in to her.

 

“God, are you listening? Yes! I fucking want to be with you. I wanted to be with you back when we were still in fucking New Mexico. That whole time I was falling deep and deeper in love with you. And now we’re here and I’ve finally, finally gotten what I want, they’re going to take it away from me, don’t you see? And I’m trying my hardest to make sure that they don’t!”

 

“You…” Sandor looked at her like he’d been clubbed over the head, but Sansa decided to ignore him and explain the rest.

 

“I love you, ok? I’m sorry for telling you this now and I promise that you’re going to be able to tell me how you feel, but listen to me. They’re going to either tell you to leave or give you a chance to prove that you’re loyal. And Robb’s not like Joffrey. He won’t pay you. He’s going to ask you to put on a kutte Sandor, with patches and a rocker. A Wolf. He’s going to want you to make a vow.” She looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes.

 

That was the heart of the matter. Sandor didn’t make promises. He didn’t have loyalties. He didn’t stay in one place. He was a loner, a drifter. Sansa knew that. She knew his past, knew how it meant he traveled and didn’t put down roots. He wasn’t one who cared to say pointless words or stay with things when they no longer served him. But she wanted him to.

 

She wanted to keep him. She wanted him with her, for all of time. She would’ve stayed with him if he was a Wolf or no one, untethered. But that was not her way, nor was it her family’s way. They were ones of the north, and she was still a Stark, no matter how much she loved him. Things were expected of her, and by extension, him. So she stood and waited and hoped.

 

“That’s why you brought me out here?” He asked slowly, looking at the faces that gazed back out at them. “To tell me this?”

 

“Ask.” Sansa corrected him, thinking that if he was still holding her hands, that was at least a good sign. He hadn’t shaken her off.

 

“Ask me what?” He turned his thunderous gaze down on her and she searched for something in there that would give her a clue as to what he was thinking, but got nothing back except stoney silence.

 

“I’m asking you to be here, with me.” She said softly. “Even if that means going. I am asking you to be with me, no matter what it takes. I’m asking you to be a Wolf or be Robb’s personal bodyguard or my mother’s personal attendant, whatever the fuck they’re going to ask you to do as a test of loyalty. I am asking you to be a Wolf, to be mine. I asking you to love me.”

 

“Asking.” He echoed softy, and then he looked up at the sky. Sansa stayed as still as she could, trying not to startle him. “Asking, my little bird is asking.”

 

“I know you probably need some time, and I’m asking too much,” She was suddenly unsure, convinced that she'd dreamed everything up. He’d never wanted her, he’d never been with her to begin with. Who was she, thinking that he’d love her back?

 

All her thoughts fled when he lifted her up. Her legs went around his waist automatically, and while one hand supported her lower back, the other was fisted in her hair and his mouth was on hers. This was different than any other kiss they’d shared. It was urgent, rough, seeking, like he was trying to take something from her. She could do nothing but yield.

 

She wasn’t sure how they ended up on the ground, except that she was pinned under him and gasping for air and him in equal measures. His breath was warm on her shoulder, her neck, as he kissed up and down it. She squirmed when his lips brushed her collarbone, but only to give him better access. She tangled her fingers in his hair and kept her legs around his waist.

 

She was out of her sweater with one tug, and he’d shed the flannel he’d been wearing. She knew, logically, that she should be chilled. The sun was sinking down, and the rays didn’t reach the meadow any longer. But with him so close, so near, she was on fire and the only relief was him, more of him. Sansa pressed herself flush with him and he groaned, gripping her tighter.

 

“Fuck.” She heard him muttering, and could feel his hardness even through his jeans. Her hands went to his zipper to do something about it, but he gently pushed her hand away. She looked up at him, confused, and found that his gaze was something she’d never seen before on him.

 

“I…” She went to explain himself, but then stopped. She was caught off guard by his expression. This was not something she knew how to respond to.

 

“Tell me something.” He pulled her onto his lap, his arms going around her to pull her close enough that she half feared that he’d smush her. “And be honest about it.”

 

“What?” She shifted slightly so that she was better nestled within his grasp and so that she could press kisses to his jawline.

 

“Did you ever once doubt that I wouldn’t burn down a fucking planet for you, Sansa Stark? That I wouldn’t rip apart the world if it meant keeping you?”

 

“Oh.” She felt tears coming on again, but these were of a different sort. He gave her a squeeze and she buried her face in the crook of his neck.

 

“I’ve wanted you, Sansa, so fucking badly, since we were still in hell. Since I figured out what the fuck love was, and how the hell I could still feel it.” He touched her cheek like she was made of glass and he was going to shatter her with nothing but a look. “You could ask me to go bring you a unicorn if it meant that we could be together and I would find one.”

 

“Aren’t you Scots hiding them somewhere in your glens?” She muttered and his look was one of astonishment and pride, before a smile grew and he laughed, outright laughed. Sansa loved the way it made his chest swell, puffed up and shaking. She laughed too then, because it felt good and right. He laughed, hugging her close and rocking her slightly.

 

“Aye.” He agreed. “We can go to Scotland. Find a unicorn. Make it work. Fuck Sansa, did you ever doubt that I wouldn’t do anything for you?”

 

“This is too much.” Sansa protested, trying to imagine him with a snarling wolf on his kutte, his bike amongst her brothers’ and uncles'. “Sandor, you don’t… You never…”

 

“I never thought I’d meet a girl like you.” He said softly. “I never thought I’d find someone who would want to fucking be with me. With all of this.”

 

“Even if being with me comes at the price of your freedom?” She voiced her most sincere fear quietly, and for a long moment there was only silence. Then Sandor’s arms loosen and he forced her to look up at him, a slight frown on his face.

 

“You don’t take away my freedom.” He said quietly, studying her face. “You know that, don’t you? You are my freedom, little bird.”

 

“I’m going to make you put roots down. Say vows, all that stuff.” She protested, a little weaker this time and he chuckled deeply.

 

“It’s past fucking time that I put roots down then, little bird. You’re something worth staying for, you know that, right?” He held her face to his. “You’re so fucking worth it. I stole you and you stole me. We’re never going to be apart again.”

 

“Just for a little bit.” Sansa promised. “Then it will be ok. You’re going to win them over, and they’ll see it’s alright, and everything will ok.”

 

For a long couple moments, they simply sat in the quiet of the circle. Sansa tried to understand what she’d done, what he’d said, and where they were now. She inspected his tattoo, seeing in it her own eyes that it was her reflection. After a bit, Lady wandered back into the circle. Sansa outstretched her arm and the wolf joined them, seemingly unbothered by the way Sansa pulled her up into Sandor’s lap as well.

 

“You keep her company while I’m gone.” Sandor ruffled her fur and Lady twisted to give him better access to her stomach. “Ok? You watch over our little bird. Good girl.”

 

“It won’t be long.” Sansa said wistfully. She had no clue if her words were a lie or truth, but they were her hope. She was safe here and she didn’t want to leave.

 

“Aye.” Sandor agreed, kissing her head. “And no matter how long it is, I’ll always come home to you, remember that little bird.”

 

“I have you here with me.” Sansa touched her still smarting tattoo.

 

“And you with me.” Sandor kissed her once more, then rose and handed her back her sweater before brushing the blanket off.

 

“Now what?” Sansa asked him, a little terrified to leave the sanctuary they'd created for the world outside.

 

“We go back.” He said bracingly. “I get my marching orders. And we make it work.”

 

“I love you.” Sansa said a little shyly, peeking up to look at him. His face split into a grin and he kissed her hard again once more.

 

“I love you too.” He whispered to her hair, before sweeping her off her feet. He carried her back towards the house, Lady chasing leaves beside them. Sansa knew what they would face before they even walked inside the door. Rickon was in the house, and so was Pod.

 

“Are you with me?” She asked Sandor, once more, hand hovering on the door handle. A kiss to her temple was her answer and she took a deep breathe before letting herself in.

 

At the table was her mother and Brienne, as well as both her younger brothers, Arya with Pod, and one of the older club members, an uncle of sorts to Sansa. Greatjon was watching her and Sandor with calm interest, nothing given away in his eyes. Her mother, however, looked a mixture of smug and annoyed, while Arya, strangely, looked happier than them all.

 

“Sansa. Sandor. Come, sit.” Brienne’s tone was flat, but Sansa gave her a sincere smile all the same. Her plan with Sandor burned in her chest, a gift they’d never take.

 

“Thank you.” She said quietly to Sandor when he pulled the chair out for her. She sat and folded her hands, looking around expectantly.

 

“Sansa, I’ve spoken to your brother.” Catelyn informed her and Sansa pretended to be surprised, sarcastically dropping her jaw.

 

“Did you?”

 

“He’s got a job for Clegane.” Catelyn carried on like she hadn’t heard her daughter. “He is going to accompany me back to Robb with your sister and then assist Arya with whatever tasks Robb decides to give her, without questions or complaints.”

 

“Wait, what?” Sansa stopped, looking between her mother and Arya. From the look on her little sister’s face, it was clear that Arya had known this was coming. Pod was pale, and Sandor looked concerned, while Brienne was tight lipped.

 

“Robb has asked that Clegane go--” Her mother started again, but this time it wasn’t Sansa who interrupted her, but Pod.

 

“You’re going to let Arya go off then? You’re going to let her go put herself in danger and do god knows what with him?” Pod looked furious and it startled Sansa. She’d never seen anything but calmness and humor on his face, but now it was unbridled rage directed at her mother.

 

“Robb said--” Catelyn started, looking surprised, and Pod scoffed, shaking his head and folding his arms, while Brienne looked at him strangely.

 

“Robb, the king, the god. He’d not the mother, you know. You are.” He reminded harshly and Arya stepped forward, resting a hand on his arm.

 

“This is what I wanted, remember?” Arya told Pod quietly and Sandor looked down at Sansa, who schooled her face into a carefully blank expression.

 

“I would’ve thought that your mother would’ve been a little bit more hesitant to let her child become a murderer.” Pod didn’t take care to keep his voice down.

 

“These people murdered her husband, who was her everything.” Arya stated and Catelyn made a noise, somewhere behind them. “It’s what we do, Pod.”

 

“I…” Pod looked down at her for a long moment, then just sighed and pressed his forehead to hers for the briefest of moments. Then he turned to Sandor, offering him his hand with a face that had been cut from marble. No emotion flickered as he said, “Take care of her then.”

 

“Aye,” Sandor shook it. “And you mind her then.”

 

“Of course.” Pod looked at Sansa, who gave him a shaky little smile.

 

“Well then, this is it.” Sandor turned to Sansa, who threw her arms around his chest and hugged him tightly, before tilting her head back.

 

“You’ll come back soon.” She said confidently, a smile growing across her face when she saw the tender little look he gave her.

 

“Aye.” He said softly and Sansa pressed up on her toes, giving him a kiss that lasted a heartbeat longer than it might have in front of her family. Sandor let her go and Sansa stepped back, taking Pod’s arm. She would stay here and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave me a review, let me know thoughts, it has been amazing to share this story and all I ever asked for. Thank you for reading!


	25. The Girl From The North Country, The Lions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. it's here and i've spent 24 chapters talking and sharing and now i don't know what to say. instead, i will cry. 
> 
> but for reals. this has been an absolute labor of love and sharing it with everyone has been indescribable. i wrote this because i saw a cool fan art and i loved SOA and Sansan and didn't think for a minute anyone would care to read it. but it has found a home, and i have too, with all of you. 
> 
> my deepest, sincerest, most utter thanks. it really has been a wild ride, pun intended. thanks for taking it with me.

Sandor Clegane had always hated coming home. He’d hated it since his brother was old enough to be bigger and stronger than Sandor, and would torment him every change he got. Then when Sandor had got a little older, there was no home to return to. For most of his life, that was how it had been. There was no home that Sandor Clegane called his own.

 

But that had all changed. For the better, certainly. Because at the moment, Sandor Clegane was going home. It was taking longer than he wanted, actually, because a certain small girl next to him was taking her sweet fucking time, but still. He was going home, to some place that wasn’t a shitty little apartment with a futon and a tv. It was a home, true and proper. A home where he was cared for. Loved. Wanted.

 

It was enough to make his heart ache, a little bit.

 

It had been a couple weeks since he was last home, but he was impatient to return. Arya, on the other hand, was dragging her feet, and he imagined he knew why. Pod wasn’t happy with her vengeance quest, and though he understood it, it didn’t make it any easier for her to return to him when she was fresh off a kill, like they were today. Another Lion dead, this one sweetest yet.

 

They’d taken the Lions by surprise and the result had been Jaime and Littlefinger in their captivity. Jaime, for all his golden haired good looks and fast talking, had paid for his crimes against Robb’s father and the Wolves. Sandor hadn’t taken part, and Sansa herself had muttered that the Lannister was a good man of sorts, despite it all, and better to her than the rest.

 

Sandor had, however, relished what had came for Littlefinger. His only regret was that Sansa herself wasn’t there to condemn him as well. He’d spoken her words in her absence, and when Littlefinger had looked shocked and horrified at him, Sandor had reminded him of the things he’d made Sansa do, and the things he wanted her to do. No tears had been shed for him.

 

All that remained were Joffrey and his mother, and a few lower ranking Lions. He wasn’t sure who was going to tear Joffrey apart first, himself, Robb, or Arya, but the boy could only run for so long. Robb would chase and hunt him down, and once he did, the war would be done and over. Then Sandor would be free to remain at his home for all time.

 

Winterfell was home, he reflected as he smoked. He would stop the habit when he got back to Sansa, since she hated it so much, but while he was on the road with Arya, it was fair game. Winterfell, the small town, the woods, the ranch, was all home, but none so much as Sansa. She was truly home. She was where his heart ran to, over and over again. She was his safe shelter.

 

Arya came out of the bathroom, scowling, reaching for a cigarette. He took a long drag before handing her the empty pack. She looked at it, then at him in disbelief, before making a noise of annoyance and throwing it into the garbage bin and pouting like a two year old.

 

“What did I say about taking mine?” She grumbled darkly and he took another puff, resisting the urge to laugh at her childishness.

 

“Don’t?”

 

“Fucking don’t.” Arya corrected.

 

“This things are shite for you anyways.” He said, flicking the butt down and grounding it out with his heel. “Clogging up your fucking lungs.”

 

“You fucking smoke them.” Arya said incredulously and he laughed.

 

“Aye, and I’m an old fucking man.”

 

“I’ll tell Sansa on you.” Arya threatened and Sandor gave her a look with raised eyebrows.

 

“And I’ll tell Pod on you.”

 

“Fuck off.” She huffed, uncrossing her arms and turning back to her bike. “C’mon, we’ll be late for dinner if we keep fucking around.”

 

“Not me who stops every thirty miles to piss and smoke and have a little pity party.” Sandor reminded her, getting the last jab in, and Arya sped past him. Laughing, he followed her. From there on, Arya didn’t pull off, but the few times he went to pass her she threw the middle finger up at him and he backed off, laughing to himself. He’d die before admitting it, but he was fond of her.

 

The closer they got to Winterfell the fast his heart would beat, and he had to repress a sort of excited shaking, giddy like a teenage schoolgirl in front of her crush when he thought about how soon he would see Sansa again, hold her again, kiss her again. It was impossible not to feel joy when it came to her. Several times he’d came home to her, but the joy never seemed to diminish.

 

The sights were becoming more familiar. He no longer needed Arya to guide and lead him around, and he no longer got lost and had to, gritting his teeth and swearing, call Jory to ask where the hell he was and how to get back to where he wanted to go. He was relearning how it felt to get acclimated to a place, to know it’s ins and outs, to feel comfortable in it. The road to Winterfell was the same as it always was, bare trees on either side of the drive, and at the end, Sansa.

 

The winter air was chilly, and he wondered if Sansa would have a hot mug of tea waiting for him. She usually did, on cool days like this. He smiled to think of her, bundled up in the window of the ranch, reading or typing on her computer. It was March, and almost her birthday. He had no idea what he was going to get her, but he sure as hell planned on making it special. For his birthday, and for Christmas, her gift to him had been his own wolf ring, one that sat heavy on his thumb. She'd given it freely, and he knew what it meant. He was her's, always. 

 

When he pulled up to the house, his attention was quickly diverted the the smouldering pile of rubble in the middle of the yard, and the three figures around it. He knew the gleaming auburn hair was Sansa, the tangled curls meant Rickon, and the dark hair was Osha. He wondered, as Sansa came hurtling full speed at him, what Rickon had managed to burn down now.

 

“Sandor!” Sansa hit him with a solid impact, flinging her arms around him and then her legs. He groaned slightly, catching her, before chuckling and giving her a squeeze.

 

“Hi little bird.” He set her down, giving her a brief kiss before looking up. “Something happening here, or are we just having a bonfire?”

 

“Ah.” Sansa laughed, tucking herself into his side. “No, nothing major. Rickon just decided that he wasn’t going to abide by the laws and guidance of the California school system anymore. He burned some books and papers. Osha gave him a strong reprimand.”

 

“Interesting.” He remarked, before looking down at her. She beamed, putting her arms around his waist and tossing her hair back. She somehow got more beautiful when he left, and more gorgeous upon his returns. “How are you?”

 

“Missed you terribly.” Sansa informed him with faux-seriousness. Her bright blue eyes glittered with coy amusement. “I pouted and sobbed and cried and wailed. Missed you so fiercely I didn’t know how to go on!”

 

“Alright.” He growled, scooping her up, making her shriek with laughter and delight. “I’ve had enough of the sass, Sansa Stark.”

 

“Have you?” Sansa rested her head on his chest, sighing happily. “I thought you said you’d never get sick of my sass. That it entertained you.”

 

“I can think of more entertaining things.” Sandor carried her to the house, ignoring the excited barks from the dogs inside. “Especially with your mouth.”

 

“Hey!” Sansa smacked him, laughing. “Watch it. Is Arya home safe?”

 

“At Pod’s.” He informed her, setting her down when he crossed the threshold so that he could bend down and pet Lady. “She thinks he’s going to be furious with her.”

 

“He might be.” Sansa flicked the electronic kettle on and pulled two mugs down from the shelves. “He’s not thrilled, I can tell you that much.”

 

“He’s a fair lad.” Sandor went for the tea bags. Despite his every effort to convert Sansa to proper tea, she still valued convenience over taste. Much to his dismay, he was very much in love with an American. “He understands her, even if he doesn’t like it. Thought all these months to get use to it would make him come around but seems not.”

 

“I like Pod.” Sansa said thoughtfully, bending down to kiss Lady’s nose as she frantically darted between the two humans, always delighted whenever Sandor returned.

 

“Everyone likes Pod.” Sandor laughed. “He’s got a likeable face.”

 

“Agreed.” Sansa pondered it until the kettle dinged and she could pour two steaming mugs, handing one to him and joining his at the counter.

 

“Cheers, little bird.”

 

“Cheers.” Sansa quietly tucked herself into his side. He let her quietly shift through her thoughts, not pressing her. She’d speak when she was ready.

 

“Everything alright around here then?” He asked her softly, after the first couple sips of his cooling tea. Sansa nodded, tapping the side of her mug with long nails.

 

“Yeah. Bran’s good. Rickon’s Rickon, but he hasn’t damaged anything we can’t replace. I even heard from mom yesterday.”

 

“Did you?” He raised an eyebrow. Catelyn was somewhere in the east, trying to settle the dispute for Robb and get her brother back. Apparently, Joffrey's allies were proving more unruly than they'd imagined. 

 

“I’ve accepted something.” Sansa traced the rim of her cup. “When Joffrey killed my father, he killed my mother too. All the parts of her that mattered anyways. She’s still a queen and a mother, but without him… She’s just a ghost of her former self.”

 

“Little bird.” He kissed the top of her head, unable to do anything else. He knew she wasn’t wrong and by all accounts, was very right. But it was her family, and he knew what it was like to mourn the loss of a mother. He simply held her close.

 

“It’s ok.” Sansa took a deep breath and twisted to give him a little smile. “Robb will be home by my birthday, he says. And he’ll even bring Talisa back with him.”

 

“Oh, you’ll fucking like her.” Sandor chortled. During his time on the road with Arya, he’d seen Talisa several times, each more enjoyable than the last. She was settling into her role as Robb’s old lady and future queen. He hoped Sansa would like her as much as he did.

 

“I’m sure.” Sansa sighed, looking around the house critically. “But in the meantime, I have to get this place cleaned up and ready. If the war really is going to end when he kills Joffrey, the whole club will come home and ruin the place. Fuck.”

 

“Let’s not talk about the club or the war yet.” He hushed her, kissing her temple. “Let’s just enjoy this for a minute, huh?”

 

“Fine.” Sansa turned in his arms to give him a proper kiss. “How is it, though? Are they making you do the grunt work, prospect?”

 

“They don’t dare.” He laughed, tangling his fingers in her fiery hair while his other hand found her waist. “Something about me and the princess of the north?”

 

“Tell them to fuck off.” Sansa’s tone was serious, but her eyes were sparkling. “I’m not a fucking princess. I’m just Sansa.”

 

“My girl from the north country.” He muttered, pulling her close and breathing her in. Sansa hummed, content, and they stayed that way until Rickon stormed in, hungry and eager to hear Sandor’s stories from the time on the road. Sansa disentangled herself from him, and smiling, went to make them something to eat.

 

Domestic bliss was the sort of term he would give the time he and Sansa shared while at Winterfell. It was easy to feel a sort of routine there. Nights together, tangled in the sheets, with the hazy glow of sex and the lights that Sansa strung around the canopy of her head. Days together, cooking and fixing things, cleaning and writing. He liked nothing more than to look up and see Sansa with her laptop or her paints, lost in her own little world of her own creation.

 

Brienne and Pod and Arya filtered in and out, while Rickon and Bran made more frequent appearances. Men from the club came and went, and while Sandor knew their names now, Sansa knew their wives and children. He wondered if she knew how good she was at this, at the day to day running of the club. He didn’t dare bring it up. He would rather not be banished to the couch.

 

After a few days, when he’d settled back into life with her here, he realized he had no more than a few days before her birthday. He tried to weedle her wish list out of her, and turned to Bran and Arya for inspiration, only to be laughed at. Arya informed him that this new Sansa was impossible to shop for, and wished him luck. Bran was of similar help, and Rickon gave him nothing. He debated asking Brienne, but he stopped himself before he could even entertain how that could play out.

 

There was a sneaking voice in his head, one that he had to squash down every time Sansa crawled into bed and curled up with him, or whenever she hugged him from behind while they cooked. The voice told him that there was a gift that he could get her, one that she’d like, one that she might even appreciate. Small, delicate, and sparkly. Expensive, but worth every penny. He had to work damn hard to shut that voice up, but it only seemed to get louder and louder.

 

A few days after his arrival, he was pondering giving in to the voice when Arya came crashing into the house, her chopped hair hastily pulled back, chunks falling out. She was half dressed, in her heavy boots and a sweatshirt of Pod’s. Only half of her face contained the heavy eye makeup she wore usually, giving her the appearance of having a black eye. Behind him, Sansa burst into laughter at the sight of her sister.

 

“You look fucking ridiculous, what--”

 

“Robb.” Arya said and Sansa’s sharp intake of breath made him reach for her instantly. “Robb has Joffrey, he captured him.”

 

“Fuck!” Sansa yelled, pressing a hand to her heart.

 

“Wrong fucking moment to pause, motherfucker," Sandor accused while Sandor shouted, 

 

"You scared the fucking shit out of me!”

 

“He’s south.” Arya explained, ignoring her sister’s outburst. “We have to go there. Now. Robb’s holding a trial, we have to go.”

 

“Arya!” Pod nearly hit the counter, trying to skid to a stop when he came flying into the house. “What the fuck is wrong, why’d you--”

 

“Robb has Joffrey.” Sansa explained and Pod’s jaw dropped as he turned to face Arya. She apprehensively folded her arms and jutted her chin out.

 

“What?” She asked defensively. “I knew you’d be mad if I said I was going to go down south and kill him. I didn’t want to piss you off.”

 

“Oh, and rushing off without a fucking explanation again is going to make me happy?” Pod demanded, annoyed, but Sandor cut them both off before they could argue further.

 

“Quit it, you two.” He turned to Sansa, who was pale, looking down at her feet. “Sansa, what do you think?” He gently touched her chin, bringing her gaze to his. She was spinning her ring frantically, like it was going to transport her somewhere far away, so he brought her hands to his lips, kissing them.

 

“I…” She trailed off, then looked up at him with her head tilted. “I want to make sure it’s done. Make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

 

“Then we’ll go.” He promised her quietly before turning to Arya. “Where is he then? Where’d the young wolf find him after all?”

 

“Some shitty motel, hiding in his mother’s hometown.” Arya laughed then, a bit mercilessly. Sandor had seen her murder men; he knew that she was relishing this and felt no reservations about this killing. But he sensed the discomfort from Pod, and also Sansa. “Robb says that this ends it all then. We’re done fighting, we’re going to grant mercy to everyone else. But not him. Or fucking Cersei. They both die.”

 

“Jesus fuck.” Pod muttered behind her and Sandor ignored their spat in favor of watching Sansa, who was absentmindedly putting the dishes in the sink.

 

“Sansa.” He kissed her head. “What do you need?”

 

“Better get to cleaning.” She muttered. “Better get it all cleaned up.”

 

“No time.” Arya called, from where she was stretching up to kiss Pod’s cheek. “We’re leaving, now. Robb said Sandor can bring you, and Brienne can bring Bran and Rickon.”

 

“You’re fucking letting them come?” Sandor turned to her, aghast, but Arya’s face was pure determination, and it was clear there would be no argument.

 

“Joffrey murdered their father too.” She said, by way of explanation, before turning and walking out. Sandor turned to look down at Sansa, but she was already heading for the stairs.

 

They left in a convoy that night, all at once. There hadn’t been much time to prepare, but Sansa had managed somehow to get everyone fed. Bran and Rickon were in Brienne’s SUV, while Arya and Pod rode her bike beside Sansa and Sandor on his. Sansa was dressed in the boots she’d worn while on the run, with tight black jeans and a thick black hoodie with one of Sandor’s jean jackets thrown over the top. She tugged her old beanie on and put her arms around him. It felt familiar, but all too different. 

 

The night sky, the cool air, her on the back of his bike. It reminded Sandor of the trek across the west, the desperate bid to get her home. Away from Joffrey, Cersei, the Lions. And yet here he was, on a dark highway, taking her back to all of it. He had to remind himself that she was safe. That this was alright. That it would be ok. She had the safety and protection of all the Wolves. But it didn’t stop him from feeling like a lead weight was settling into the pit of his stomach.

 

It was deep into the night when they reached the town where Robb was located. When he parked his bike, Sansa was off in a heartbeat, going to make sure that Bran and Rickon were both asleep. He helped Brienne carry them into the motel, laying them down on beds. With a nod, he went back outside to see what was going on. Whatever he’d expected, the sight of Jon was not it.

 

“Jon!” Arya’s race for him was followed closely by Sansa, and Jon was nearly bowled over by the force of the two of them.

 

“Hey.” He said softly, ruffling Arya’s hair and giving Sansa’s shoulder a pat. “Hey, hi guys. Bran and Rickon sleeping then?”

 

“Yeah.” Sandor said, as Sansa wiped away a tear. “What the fuck are you doing here, Snow?” Jon flinched at the name.

 

“I had to come back for… This.” He admitted.

 

“Robb only told us yesterday.” Sansa’s brow was furrowed. “Why were you back so soon? How did you--- Wait. Have you been home?” She demanded.

 

“Not necessarily.” Jon fidgeted, uncomfortable. “I was close by. When Robb mentioned they might be closing in, I decided to… Come back. Mom will be here in the morning.”

 

“Well shit.” Arya was still looking at Jon like she didn’t quite believe he was real, for once beaming instead of scowling. “Everyone will be here.”

 

“Apparently.” Sansa rested her head on Sandor’s arm. Jon looked at them with resignation, but when Arya took Pod’s hand, his jaw dropped.

 

“You missed some things.” Sansa informed him, a little sadly, before Brienne came out and ordered them all to bed, threatening and scolding in equal measures.

 

Sandor didn’t sleep. Sansa, curled into his side, slept fitfully, but he was glad for whatever little rest she could get. He didn’t want this weighing on her anymore. He wanted to take her away, take her somewhere safe. He thought of the mountains, and wondered if she’d go nomad with him. A life on the road, the two of them, seemed rather fitting. He’d go anywhere, so long as it was with her.

 

When dawn came, all the Stark children rose. Sandor had never seen them all together and though he didn’t expect them to interact the same as any normal family, he wondered if they would tease and complain and support each other. He got his answer when they pulled up to the deserted quarry and Robb emerged from a knot of Wolves and other clubs that backed him.

 

“Jon.” Robb called, looking at his twin first, and Jon stepped forward, clasping Robb’s forearms. The two looked each other in the eye, grey to blue, before they separated. Rickon went leaping into Robb’s arms, and he staggered under the weight, laughing. Bran, ever calm and collected, gave Robb a brief hug. Sansa and Arya both hugged him, though Sansa was trembling.

 

“A sight to see.” Jory remarked, watching as Robb talked lowly to Arya and Jon, while Sansa gave a sad little smile to the other men who stepped forward with greetings. “I haven’t seen them like this since before their father. Maybe even before Sansa went off to college.”

 

“As long as they’re alright.” Sandor said roughly, watching Sansa. It wasn’t more than a few minutes later that a car pulled up, and Catelyn emerged, stiff backed, and faced her children. Robb was the first to step forward and kiss her cheek, and after that the rest followed, a little slower. Sandor hung back, keeping a respectful distance, until Sansa looked for him.

 

“You can go see him, if you want.” Robb was telling Sansa, when Sandor stepped forward. Sansa caught his hand almost instantly, gripping him tightly. He knew that they must be talking about the captured prince. 

 

“I don't think I have anything to say to him.” Sansa muttered, looking at her scuffed up boots. They were almost falling off her feet, but Sandor hoped that she loved them as much as he did. “He knows what he did to me. He knows that everything I promised him would happen has. You’re going to kill him and that’s enough for me Robb. I don’t want to see him again.”

 

“Fair enough.” Robb patted her cheek gently before looking up at Sandor. “And you, Clegane? Got any final words for him?”

 

“No.” Sandor said, surprised at the lack of hesitation he had. “No, I’ve said everything I want to. He’s a fucking cunt, and he’ll die. Like Sansa said… That’s enough.”

 

“Alright.” Robb clapped his shoulder. “Then I don’t expect you to stay here, Sansa. Take her somewhere safe then, Clegane.”

 

“Aye.” Sandor said, putting his arm around Sansa’s shoulder. They both watched, quietly, as Robb spoke to each of his other siblings, and Sandor knew that he was offering them the same choice he’d given Sansa. A chance for last words. When it was all said and done, Robb walked into the quarry with Arya, Rickon, and Catelyn. Bran, Jon, Pod, Sansa, and Sandor hung back, quietly watching.

 

“He hurt you worst of all and you’re not going to see him die?” Bran asked Sansa lowly, as the men around them either departed or followed Robb into the quarry.

 

“No.” Sansa’s face was chiseled from marble. Her arms were crossed and her hair, loose down her back, blew in the early morning wind. It seemed like a storm was coming. “I’ve seen death. I don’t need to face it again. Let them have their vengeance. I’ll have my peace.”

 

“What now?” Jon asked, seemingly more to himself than either of his siblings.

 

“You could come home.” Bran glanced at him. “The war is over. Robb has most of California now. He’s going to need help.”

 

“You could help him.” Jon said, thought it was clearly a joke.

 

“I’m going to go to MIT.” Bran stated, and no one batted an eye at his declaration. Sandor believed that he was likely being truthful.

 

“I’m going to ask Arya to move in with me.” Pod announced and they all turned to look at him, Sansa amused, Jon rather murderous. “I have an apartment in town. I know she’s always going to be a bit… Wild. But I like to think that she’d like it there. Away from everything.”

 

“You can try.” Jon gave his shoulder a pat, trying his best to hide his thunderstruck look. “Best of fucking luck to you.”

 

“Thanks.” Pod muttered, but didn’t protest.

 

“Are you coming home then or not, Jon?” Sansa asked her brother bluntly, turning to face him with her arms folded. He flinched but turned to face her as well.

 

“I’m still going to be nomad…” He said carefully, but before Sansa could angrily huff at him, he added, “But I won’t head out for a bit. I need to be home for a bit. Some girl told me that my family needed me and I should stop being a selfish prick.”

 

“See, I--” Sansa started, but Jon chuckled.

 

“Not you, San.”

 

“Oh.” She stopped, then tilted her head before understanding blossomed across her face. “Wait. Jon, do you have… A girl?”

 

“Speaking of.” Jon looked delighted in the relief that Talisa brought with her. She was dressed in tight black jeans and a leather jacket that was zipped shut, her hair piled atop her head. She walked towards them, back straight and face calm.

 

“Talisa.” Sandor greeted her and felt Sansa’s nails dig into his forearm. “Good to see you again. Didn’t know you’d be coming.”

 

“Hello Sandor.” She gave him a smile, stopping across from Sansa, Bran, and Jon. “I’ve heard you’re doing well. I’m glad.”

 

“Hello.” Sansa stepped forward, shouldering past Sandor remorselessly, extending her hand out with a raised eyebrow. “I’m Sansa, Robb’s little sister. It’s nice to meet you.”

 

“Of course.” Talisa grasped her hand and shook it with a warm smile. “Robb’s told me so much about you. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

 

“And you.” Sansa glanced over her shoulder at her brothers, both of whom were hanging back and eyeing Talisa with varying amounts of distrust. “I know you’ve already met Sandor, but these are my brothers, Jon and Bran.” She ushered them forward.

 

“Nice to meet you.” Talisa grinned at both of them, while Jon gave her a smile that was more a grimace than anything, and Bran simply inclined his head. “I wish it was under better circumstances, but nonetheless, it’s good to finally get to meet everyone.”

 

“Have you met mom?” Bran asked her suddenly and if Talisa was taken aback, she did her level best to hide it with a smile.

 

“I have, in fact.”

 

“And how’d that go?” Jon chuckled, while Sansa gave a wry smile. Talisa smiled back, it slipping a little in her hesitation, before answering.

 

“Your mother is a great woman and I’ve learned a lot from her in the short time that I’ve been here. I think that she’s very--”

 

“It’s ok.” Sansa patted her shoulder. “She’s our mother. We know. Don’t worry about being politically correct with us. If you keep Robb from doing stupid shit, we’ll get along just fine. I mean, you already fixed up my Sandor. I couldn’t dislike you.” Sansa gave her a warm clasp on the shoulder and that Talisa reciprocated with a warm smile. Before any more could be said, Jory came over.

 

“It’s going to happen now.” He informed them quietly, reaching out and taking Sansa’s shoulder carefully. “Do you want to go?”

 

“No.” Sansa’s hand found Sandor’s once more and she pulled him close to her. “No, let’s end it. Let’s end this and then go home.”

 

“Alright.” Jory gave her a curt nod, before Sandor drew Sansa into his arms. He kissed the top of her head as she hid her face.

 

“It’ll be alright.” He heard Jon saying to Bran and perhaps to Talisa as well. “Robb’s a good man, and he follows father’s rules.”

 

“Rules?” Talisa asked and Jon’s answer was grim.

 

“The man who passes the sentence should be the one to deliver it.”

 

When two shots rang out, one right after the other, Sandor squeezed Sansa close like his arms could protect her from the sound echoing throughout the quarry.

 

Afterwards, there was no celebration. There was no joy. Robb, Rickon, and Arya rejoined them, stone faced and serious. Robb gave Talisa a simple kiss on the cheek, introducing her to his siblings in their entirety. Then they stood silently, unable to leave each other but unsure of what came now. Jon, surprisingly, was the one who broke the silence.

 

“We should go home.” He announced. “I have someone that will be waiting for me there, and I’d like for you all to meet her.”

 

“A girl?” Arya turned to him, eyebrows high. She and Pod were standing about a foot apart, but he was the first person Arya glanced at when Jon went red and coughed, avoiding their eyes. Pod gave her a knowing sort of look, and took a half step closer to her.

 

“Home then.” Catelyn said quietly, from behind them. They all turned to her and she folded her hands in front of her, giving a little smile. “I’d like to have all my family home with me. Just for a bit. Sansa’s birthday, perhaps. Let’s all go home.”

 

“Yes, ma.” Robb gave her a kiss on the cheek and then took Talisa’s arm. “Come along then. I think half the club is going to follow us.”

 

They dispersed, to their bikes and cars. Sansa stood next to Sandor’s bike, absentmindedly stroking the handlebars before looking up at him. He tilted his head in concern, reaching down and catching her chin. She give him a watery sort of smile and he pressed his lips gently to her forehead, trying to convey his tenderness and devotion to her in the kiss.

 

“Are you alright, little bird?” He asked her carefully.

 

“I’m ok.” Sansa wrapped her arms around him and exhaled deeply, giving him a little squeeze. He waited for her to add more, but when she didn’t, leaned back and looked at her inquiringly.

 

“Aye?”

 

“Aye.” Sansa gave a nod. “I just… It’s over now. It’s done. I’m ready for it to be behind us, you know? Let’s move on past it. I don’t want to linger on it. He’s gone and so are the rest. I’ll never have to think about them again, and I have you.”

 

“You do.” He stroked her cheek and she smiled, blue eyed and beautiful. "There's something I wanted to tell you, you know." 

 

"What's that?" Sansa looked up at him and he was sure he would never fail to be surprised at how innocent she could be, even after all she'd suffered. 

 

"I found out what my name means," he revealed and her eyes went wide. It had been an offhand thing, one night bored on the road with Arya, but he had been waiting for the right time to tell Sansa. 

 

"And what is it?" She asked, her hands cold. He took them, kissing them, before admitting, 

 

"Defender of mankind." 

 

"I know," Sansa whispered and he pulled back, startled. "I bribed one of the drunk girls to look it up, after we talked about it. I knew you'd do good Sandor. I always knew you had it in you." 

 

"You did, before anyone else," he agreed, not even bothering to be peeved or impressed with her. He'd learned long ago that Sansa Stark was an extraordinary woman, and he would never underestimate her. "You always believed in me, even when I was a rabid old dog." 

 

“My wolf.” Sansa corrected, her hands gripping his prospect kutte. It would be a wolf soon enough, and then he would be marked as hers for all of time. He would outwardly reflect the brand that she’d seared onto his soul, months ago in the clubhouse filled with Lions.

 

“We could go away.” He heard himself offering, quietly, as the revving of bikes blew up dust all around them. “I could take you to Scotland. Show you all the old fucking places. You could see where I grew up. That fucking dusty house, and the… the… meadow, where--” He cut himself off and Sansa’s smile was trembling, something between sadness and joy.

 

“Ok.” She agreed quickly. “Ok, I love that. Ok. Let’s do that. Let’s go to Scotland, ok? We can go and you can show me all the places you loved and hated. We can get away. I’d like that so much Sandor. So, so much.” She kissed his forehead.

 

“Alright.” He agreed, holding her close. There was plenty of time for them to do whatever they wanted. They had all the time and the freedom in the world.

 

Sansa climbed on the back of his bike, wrapping her arms around him. He wondered if she knew what she did to him. If she had any clue at all. He would make her understand, one day, just how important she really was to him. He thought about her birthday, and the gift that he needed to purchase. The promise of forever he would give her. He smiled as he started his bike, falling in line with the rest of the Wolves.

 

They were heading back north, but it felt bigger than that to him. With Sansa on the back, it felt like he was heading home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you are reading this note, please know that i am thanking you, desperately, for making it through this journey. this story has been my heart and soul, and i've gotten so much joy from sharing it. i've left the ending open, because i don't quite think that a bright eyed sansa smiling on the back of a brooding sandor's bike is just out of my mind yet. will there will one-shots? perhaps a sequel? my stupid monkey brain might come back around to this in a day, month, or year. 
> 
> all i ask is that you stick with me if it does. and leave a review on your way out. from me to every single person, thank you. thank you. thank you. 
> 
> (also even though this song was done by my duluth boy bob dylan, the lions slay this song and it's amazing ok that really is all THANKS BYE)


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